Coming Home

A little boy of merely five
Had come to me one day.
Sharp grief in my heart came alive
As he asked me to pray.

He pulled me closer to explain
What caused his misery.
'My mother did strike me again,
and so I come to thee.'

I sat him down and there we prayed,
His hands enclosed in mine.
I told him he could rest assured
That all would be just fine.

The next day he returned to me,
His poor condition worse.
He then let out the deafening scream:
'My life is but a curse!

'My mother hits, my father kicks,
And I am left alone
To wait in fear of their cruel tricks;
My house is not my home.'

I sat him down and there we prayed,
His hands enclosed in mine.
I hoped that he could rest assured
That all would be just fine.

The morning next on my doorstep
Lay he, so close to death.
A silent vigil he had kept
In hope I'd save his breath.

I scooped him up, limp in my arms,
And placed him on my bed.
Despite all of my prayers and charms
He soon lay lifeless, dead.

We all sit down to think and pray
With our hands intertwined.
My congregation, on that day
He left all sin behind.

From that day forth I never cried
So much for one small child.
His spirit haunts me, for he died
While by Satan beguiled.

by Sabrina Sixx

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