by Betty Baker Bailey
How do you sleep little child of my heart?
Are you afraid of the sounds in the dark?
Does your little heart race at your motherís voice?
Are you terrified of her need for choice?
How do you dream little child all alone?
Do you think how youíd be if you ever got grown?
Do you wish for a kiss or a warm full breast?
Do you long for the peace of a safe nightís rest?
How is your life little one, do you play?
Do you turn? Do you kick? Do you push away?
Do you look at your hands? Your fingers or toes?
Have you reached out and touched the tip of your nose?
How do you grow little one in the womb?
Does each new cell bring the dread of your doom?
Do you hate each change? Do they bring you fear?
Do you wonder why no one seems to hold you dear?
How do you fight little one, for your life?
Do your little feet kick hard against the knife?
Do you try to hold on when the suctioning starts?
Does it hurt when they pull your limbs apart?
How do you die little one, do you cry?
Do you wonder why your mom believed the lie?
Do you grab at the one who breaks your neck?
Do you doubt that anyone ever gave a heck?
How does it feel when youíre tossed to the side?
Do you hear or see the ones that denied
That you were alive in your motherís womb;
That they killed you and put you in the tomb?
But what do they do with whatís left of you?
Do they put you away in a box thatís new?
Do they sing you a song or shed a tear?
Or do they laugh a little and go have a beer?
Did you know your eyes are worth some money?
That your parts are used like bees use honey?
Though no one cared enough to let you live
They all care to see just how much you can give.
For each precious part there is now a price
The ones who killed you think itís quite nice.
They all line their wallets with your skin
And call it "just research" to your kin.
They who took an oath to "do no harm"
Destroy the hope of the unborn.
Taking little lives, they call them naught.
Earning a profit from the anguish theyíve wrought.
And where is mom while this is done?
Does she fight for the life of her little one?
Is she screaming for help or running to hide?
Does she not hear your cries from deep down inside?
And dad, whoís so strong, why does he not care?
Does he not know the torture you endure there?
Doesnít grandma or grandpa hear your plea,
"Will no one . . . no, no one please care for me"?
But wait, little one, surely there must be laws?
To take guiltless life must truly give pause?
Some penalty, some cost, some great price paid
By those who dare make your little light fade?
What justice will judges and rulers bring you?
Surely they will defend you, as is your due?
Or will they also turn their face aside
And in their dark hearts the truth hide?
Letís go to those who claim to speak for God;
Those who say they follow where Jesus trod.
They most surely must be screaming out in anger
Warning against the impending danger.
Whatever will become of such a nation
Where innocents are given no earthly station;
Where helplessness is such a horrible curse
And death is meted out to those who nurse?
Oh, where have you gone little one of my heart;
Little eyes, little fingers, little toes, little heart?
Do you look at this world from heaven above,
And wonder, yes wonder, what is this thing we call "love"?
To the world, you may just be somebody...but to
somebody, you may be the world.
Bill Wilson, Metro Ministries