That fragile cry
Those tiny hands
Such a small body, such big pain.
That tiny heart that pumps much too hard,
That tiny heart was pierced much too young.

So close to death,
So close to life,
So in between,
It isn’t right.

Will they hear the pitter-patter
        of little feet running?
Will they hear the softest of cries
        so early in the morning?
Will she grow and become strong?
Will she go, and leave us so young?

Too young to fight,
Too young to give up,
Too young to die,
Too young to live.

Little Abigail, close your eyes
        you will not have to fight.
Mommy has you in her hands
       everything will be alright.
Grow big and strong in the Lord
       for you are meant for so much more.

Little Abigail, close your eyes, and sleep.
From you I want to hear not a peep.
Rest now and later we shall see.
The running, the growing, of your little feet.

Abigail Madison Elise Nevitt,
              AMEN is cried out for you.
AMEN, the name given to you.
Borne on Good Friday,
               she came home on Easter.
God bless that little heart,
              she was blessed from the very start.

I still hope
That even my tiny hands might shape something
Great
But I sit in the mire
Playing with mud
Deluded by such grandeur that I am
A worthy creator
Shake my fists at God
“I am better!”
“I can do just as good of a job as You!”
All the while sinking deeper in the filth
I surround myself with
Hysteric laughter
“I can be God, I can be God.”
But my tiny hands can never make
Never make something of worth
Lasting through the ages
Laughter fades as I bow my head
Murmuring,
“I am God…”
Sink lower into the mire
Neck deep
“I am God…”
A pile of sloppy clay in front of me
“I am God…”
But what can a *** tell of its Potter?
What can a painting say of its Painter?
Can they say that they outshine the Hands that shaped them?
Can they say they are the Hands?
Nay, they only reflect the glory and the beauty of the Creator.
So help me, O God.
Because my pride is dragging me down
I am but a beautiful ***
Molded by an even more beautiful Creator
Still being molded
My tiny hands can do nothing
On their own
But even tiny hands can do great things
With big, strong hands to guide them.

Tiny pieces of you
Linger in my very being
Burning embers of brimstone
Sulfur fills each breath
I stop to smell the roses
They turn to ash at my touch
At you within me
Particles spread as I cough you up
Multiplying in the air
Dancing with joy
At their new-found freedom

Tiny pieces of you
Rotting my soul and consuming my spirit
Burning pinholes in my brain
Memories burned away
Shadow of pain still sore, still raw

Lingering, lingering, lingering