My mother had just
Winged out of her teens,
When the air stirred
With wails of her umpteenth.
I was nursed at her
Promising breast,
Carried astride her 
Heaving chest.
‘Was cradled on her
Hardened thighs,
And soothed to sleep
By her recurring sighs.
Of her children
That are numerous.
I was at odds,
Just as themselves.
For we are fathered
By tens and thousands,
Only to be abandoned to
Our own counsels.
Though of the One
 Who formed her, and
With unmatched abundance,
Never did utter a word to me.
All my pleas and tears
In search of the missing link,
Fell on deaf ears, though 
To despair, she saw me sink.
She gave me playmates,
She gave me succour,
But shushed me to silence
When asked about Father.
I fought and cried,
My chest I beat
But, then she had me 
Flung to her feet.
There I lay, desperate! 
By callousness, defeated!
Trampled and crushed,
By her sons wicked!
Then I saw the Hand
That’d reached for me,
The Hand of miracles
That had come to save me.
Why, Oh why, did I wonder –
True Love spurned and rejected?
The voice of the Maker unheard?
The pierced Hand unrecognized?
Yet, His compassion fails not,
His love calls you and me.
Though, ma, leave I must,
I leave with one last plea –
“Join us ma, for in His Kingdom 
Are many mansions –
Plenty for you, and 
All your many sons.”