The safest place on earth should be the womb,
Wrapped by maternal love instilled by God above.
But love of self makes it a killing room.
It’s woman’s greatest glory and her plume
That God made her the one, to bear a daughter, son.
The safest place on earth should be the womb.
A child is weaved in her; she is the loom.
Conception’s grand event – new human’s great advent.
But love of self makes it a killing room.
A tiny bud is just a folded bloom
Woe to the gardener who snips – the murderer!
The safest place on earth should be the womb.
Too oft, the wicked rides upon her broom
And sweeps away the child that has her life defiled,
And love of self makes it a killing room.
There is no right to bring another doom.
The murder’s always wrong, e’en when it’s sung as song.
The safest place on earth should be the womb,
But love of self makes it a killing room.
——————————————–
© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.
The Bard on the Hill 