Those little things
With six thin legs
Seem just at night
To like me
Each night I find
One on an arm
Or leg, or ear –
They fright me
And then I cannot
Sleep a wink
For fear that they
Will bite me
[Unless I say
A little prayer
And then that act
Will calm me]
How could I do that awful thing,
With words to bite, with tongue to sting?
How could I cut off other’s words,
To thus imply, “You are absurd.”?
With ease I fall and don’t suspect
The words I say might have effect.
And sure myself have often known
The hurt of words from other’s tongue.
So, grant us, Lord, we do implore,
Our tongue to hold, our words to store.
And let instead encourg’ment come,
So we’ll have peace when day is done.