The unborn

Proverbs 1:18

How can we weigh a million souls

Like sand cast up beside the sea,

To weigh them in the balance

Of our chains, our fears, and our desires?

Low flames, so pale they quench the light,

So cold, they burn like fire.

To make a mark for every man,

A hidden rule, an empty line

That shortens if he cannot walk,

If he is weak, or blind,

If he may someday hinder us

Or meet us somewhere unawares

Be tempted then to steal or spoil,

For him we have a steepened slope,

A poisoned peace, and not a care.

And if we then consume our lives

Unmindful of the hidden toil

Of those that vanish comfortless

Without a thought, without redress,

Burned roots, bruised seeds beneath the soil,

Then when we also take that slope

Perhaps in weakness, blindness, bare,

Then with the One who forms each life

Perhaps they meet us on the shore

Perhaps with strength, remembrance, sight,

Perhaps they will be there.