Oh sweet child of Sorrows Street,
Still chaste of hope till mornings greet
Black dogs of poverty pursue on winters chill,
As a sweet child of sorrows street
is crushed beneath the iron maidens will.
Giving thus unto tiny imploring hands
Which, from thin and tattered coat unfurl
For she cries from midst of raging snow,
whilst frozen sorrow gatherers upon the street below.
Her cries of the night on deaf ears do fall,
As the passing clamoring masses, ignore her feeble call.
Simple were the words she had said
As the frost of sorrows street
took from her from this silhouetted time.
For it had laid its claim on this sweet child,
Whose only misdeed,
was to be born in this unmerciful time.
Yet still, if one could only see,
Her frozen last words that fell on the wind of eternity,
Then you would truly know,
That when she spake
That it was of Gods love
And that the angels were there
On sorrows street
And it was her time with them to go.
J. Allen Wilson © 2004
Children can see more in the innocence of their mind,
So much more than educated adults can in a lifetime.
For angels surround us all,
if we would with the mind of a child…listen
just be still and listen to their call.