Gospel Truth
Snot-faced, disheveled, He fidgets between the church pews And pulls on his mother's skirts She stills him with a sharp word But clasps his hand in hers, as the pastor reads a verse He can't see the eyes piercing her skin The uncertainty brimming within But propped on her hip He knows only the soft song of her lips as worship And heaven, the little nook in her chest where he lays his head.