In looking back at all that I wrote,
I said, “These words didn’t come from me;
Somebody else must have done this,
Too well written, the words flow free.”

I’ll get to the bottom of this,
Find the one who is writing all these;
There has to be a poet somewhere,
Maybe hiding outside in the trees.

Done looking outside; I found no one,
So in the garage I think I’ll look;
There is nothing in there but the cars,
And some old bike hanging on a hook.

I took a peek out in the shed,
There was no one hanging around;
No one out by the old frog pond,
Maybe he’s hiding underground.

My searching outside was fruitless,
So I took a look in the house;
First thing I checked was the basement,
Found nothing down there but a mouse.

Next thing I checked was the closets,
No one was hiding among the clothes;
What a strange mystery this is,
Someone had to have written those.

I still have the attic to check,
I lower the stairs and I climb;
I look around and I’m amazed,
The Poet in the attic I find!

Then all at once he disappears,
Was it my imagination?
No, it was God checking on me,
Helping this worthless creation.

I say, “Thank You Lord for the words,
But why do You give them to me?
I am surely not worthy of,
This gift that is granted by Thee.”

Then I drop to my knees in praise,
Still thinking that I’m not worthy;
He says, “My child get on your feet,
You’re simply doing your duty.”