1/3/92.
Oh to be a climbing vine . . .
Reaching ever higher.
Not content just lying here . . .
Amidst this muck and mire!
Oh to cling unto the Rock . . .
That Rock, that has no bounds,
Grasping reaching more each day . . .
His beauty to be found!
If by chance, I be torn down . . .
Not for long to stay,
But, reaching forth, to climb again . . .
On the morrow of the day!
Should I be trampled, left for dead . . .
With no hope to be found
May God breathe, life anew, once more . . .
And lift me from the ground.
Securing me, so firm to him . . .
Attached, by His own hold
Watching fruit, from deep with-in . . .
My climbing vine unfold!
Peggy Jeanine Woody
1/3/1992
This poem was written 25 days before my son lost both feet in a car accident. He lived 18 years after that, dealing with phantom pain daily!
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