At times – who can but honestly admit the stage?
The family altar would be calm and dry.
No quiver filled the voice, no moisture trimmed the eye.
Yon Ancient History stayed just that – flat as the page.
Distant battles were read, but did not seem to rage.
Light, the soul of poetry, was not freshly lit.
Finally – devotions closed, they closed with a sigh.
Ah, but those other nights – precious, dear other nights,
In moments for which no dad or moma prepares;
A son [1] leading out in prayer, thanks God for his stairs.
Verses once seen but darkly, take on brighter lights,
God illuminates truth which once held no delights.
His Word will not return to Him void
He Himself, so solemnly declares. – eab, 9/97
[1] Our second son, Lincoln, about the time he started school, did this – it brought a smile to my praying face and then (as I realized his sincerity) it brought tears to my eyes. This family altar was on Goodbread Street, Nevada, OH.
Separate-Holy 