"Thursday's Child"

They’re digging a hole for my cria
under the old grapevine.
They say, “Ain’ meant for this baby—
this’ll then be God’s design.”

She’ll never get her legs beneath her,
the strength just won’t be found.
So they take away my baby
and put her in the ground.

I keep sayin’ “Get up, baby.”
Doc replies “Nothing to be done,”
Puts a needle to my baby’s neck
and says “Just hold her, son.”

My baby kicked some as she went;
brown eyes turned blue and cold.
She laid her nameless head upon my chest;
she wasn’t but four hours old.

I held on until my heart
was the only one left beating.
I held my breath so she wouldn’t be
the only one not breathing.

I hear my mother’s shovel
slicin’ the warm June dirt.
God’s taking away my baby;
I wish He’d taken me first.