Praying In A Poem.

In this my poem when I was but a child
remembering the hidings from my Dad,
even dear mother couldn't understand
why her husband a mad man at war.
His mood swings from happy days
to a total stranger in a fit of rage,
screaming frightening cursing.

Time to run away and hide,
Mom and I in the barn
until he fell asleep,
waking apologizing
sober for a week or two
and then the devil in him,
what else could he do but cry -

“Why me the man forced to fight
and shoot the enemy on command,
the Major strutting no prisoners today.”
Peace finally arrived with his heat attack,
dying in my Mother’s arms with a prayer -
“Oh my God! Forgive me the lives I destroyed.”

I am the son, a teenager having run away
still clinging in hope, to crown my dreams
beside a pebbled brook, humbly to bow
too afraid to see into the ruined grounds.
The lonely boy born to work and weep
until the grave with unperceived decay,
my resignation in a lonely life of strife
fast fading the stranger whispering -

Deep words mingled notes from above,
more skilled than I, he raised my hopes.
The village preacher in a modest home
sitting by the fire talking a night of strife,
crying over my wounds a tale of sorrow,
sweet now the holy sound from above.
“Thank you Father! I’m your son Jesus,
who died to save this lonely child’s soul.”

Against this time if ever it comes to you
bow your knee and worship God on high,
his locks are wet with tears flowing down
to soothe the thorny brow of his only son,
stripped broken and bleeding on a cross.
There to rise glorified transfigured as God.
Three in one the holy trinity for eternity,
praying the poem that saved my life.