By Anita Mondragon
A small little embryo, just the size of a pea,
Not long ago sat on Jesus’ knee.
He told of the plans He had in store,
And the amazing life…just outside the womb’s door.
He said, “Son, you’ll be another Michael Angelo!
It won’t be long now, you’ll soon get to go!”
But mother was young and so afraid!
She ran to Planned Parenthood to abort this babe.
While in the womb, there was warmth and safety;
A tiny home where to reside.
Now, tiny limbs torn from their sockets…
Saline burns…no place to hide!
So, now for eternity, he’ll paint the skies,
And the bright yellow sun, as it starts to rise.
He’s joined by millions that are already there
Who had their lives ended, without a care.
As I sit and observe nature with it’s wonderful view,
I’m sure God allows them to do what all children do…
With watercolors, and crayons, and markers and paint,
They draw in the sky, sometimes ever so faint.
For I’ve seen angels and turtles and castles of clouds,
And I know tiny hands drew them as they giggled aloud!
Was it them that put that gull in view against a blue, blue sky?
Or painted the rose a pretty pink just as I walked by?
Do they paint the brown eyes of a little fawn,
Or the spots on a butterfly…
Or the stripes on a bee, buzzing through the air,
Or the snow on the mountains high?
Was it their brush that stroked the canyon wall,
Or painted the mist from the thundering waterfall?
Do they color the rainbow in all of it’s hues,
Or that shimmering, glimmering drop of dew?
The crest of white on the ocean wave,
Or the dark, black hole at the mouth of a cave?
The reds and golds of the leaves in Fall,
Or the giant Redwoods, towering, Oh so tall?
Do they paint each petal that blooms in Spring,
Or touch their brush to each birds wing?
Were they the ones that drew the naked trees in burnt umber and somber black-
Silhouettes against Winter skies?
Does their brush touch the glistening snow,
As the Winter wind softly sighs?
Did they paint the rocks of the canyon wall
In the grandest canyon of them all?
Or the Cactus blooms on the desert, sandy…
Or the llamas fur, high in the Andes?
I think they paint everything! A billowy cloud,
Or a lightening blot, straight to the ground…
A purple dawn, a silver fog,
Or a Harvest moon, big and round!
The earth and sky are their canvas huge.
They paint by day and by night.
They paint the colors of dawn each morning,
And scatter the stars at night.
When I grow tired and I close my eyes…
Do they close their eyes too?
No! I think they fly to the other side of the world,
And paint yet another spectacular view!