Nondenominational: Poetry in Christ

His crimes . . . The devil smiled in his craft As the driver lost control.

All the while, he just laughed, Thought he gained one more soul.

A mothers worst nightmare, Birthed just before sunrise.

No phone call could dare Soften this mothers surprise.

The car wrapped around That phone pole, like saran. For years in the future, Injurys what would stand. Fourteen weeks in a coma, Therapy for three years. Learning everything over, Brain injury posted fears.

Learning how to walk, How to think, read, and write, He read books like a hawk, Praying things end up right.

Could he ever come back? Or will misery stand? Who could come fix the tracks? Who would give him a hand? Could his life come around If he wept on the curb? Will his tears just make a sound, Or is his prayer not heard?

But he came from the heights To swoop down to his depths, To help make his life right, Stand him up with his breath.

Now he lives in his heart Ever since faith met time.

He gave him a new start, His glory in his crimes.