And Molech Smiles

     I did not want to write this particular poem. There is no reason such dark thoughts should come to me while sitting in the sunny, comfort of a corporate aircraft lounge, knitting a baby blanket. Knitting a baby blanket. Maybe that was why. Abortion in America displays the tragic dichotomy between what we know about unborn babies and how we treat them. And it reveals the darkness of human nature remains unchanged, regardless of the idol, apart from God's light.

                                                And Molech Smiles

                                            Long before the time of Christ,

                                         babies were sometimes sacrificed.

                                         Rolled on Molech's waiting arms

                                         into the idol's fiery tomb

                                         for a better crop, a bigger herd,

                                         future success by blood insured,

                                           or a father's whim to kill his child.

                                                    And Molech smiled.

                                            There were other ways

                                          in those barbarous days,

                                          babies died inside a womb

                                          ripped open by a warrior's sword.

                                          One less enemy to fight.

                                          But all in war is justified.

                                            One less mother, one less child.

                                                    And Molech smiled.

                                             We know the truth in modern times, 

                                           scan the unborn, so abortion finds

                                           its tiny target. Deaths the fiercest savage

                                           might scarcely comprehend.

                                           Dissected by a healer's hands

                                           with a smaller sword, of cleaner steel,

                                              we claim the right to kill our child.

                                                       And Molech smiles.