My Mother
Some mothers like to bake a cake,
Or fry up eggs, or cook a steak.
But for Chinese with hearts that ache
My mother sometimes stays awake.
Some mothers love to shop for shoes
And brave Black Friday’s swarming zoos
And for ten bucks an hour lose.
My mother loves to pray for Jews.
Some moms prefer to preen their hair
And contemplate just what they’ll wear.
But even if she gets a stare,
My mother really doesn’t care.
Some women grab a paperback
Or binge on Netflix’s numbing crack
Or scan the tabloids in the rack.
My mother prays through midnight’s black.
Some ladies like to decorate
And of their house a god create.
But this one knows for heav’n to wait:
My mother fights at Sheol’s gate.
Some dainties dream of Paris trip
And cappuccinos coyly sip
While millions die in Satan’s grip.
My mother won’t let mission slip.
Some mothers only mollify;
Than speak hard truths they’d rather die.
Their kids dump God; they wonder why.
My mother talks like Christ is nigh.
Though all that I have said is true,
If I stop here she’ll run me through.
“Praise Christ, not me!” she’d say to you.
My mother’s God can be yours too!
