by Verna Mull
12/16/2008 / Poetry
Hidden in the small bushes,
A tiny baby fawn lay,
His mother will not return,
At the ending of the day.
A hunter aimed, shot his gun!
Nothing could the mother say,
Fatally wounded, she fell
She'd never see her fawn play!
The lives of the many deer,
Are not easy at the best.
The hunter's gun hit its spot
Not thinking about the rest.
Now, there's a small baby fawn,
There's nothing that he can do;
But sleep and dream of mother,
Until his young life is through!
An elderly Christian who has learned to depend upon the Lord. He is sufficient to meet our needs in any circumstance of life. I only want to honor Him
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