Climbing Vine

1/3/92.

Oh to be a climbing vine . . .

Reaching ever higher.

Not content just lying here . . .

Amidst this muck and mire!

Oh to cling unto the Rock . . .

That Rock, that has no bounds,

Grasping reaching more each day . . .

His beauty to be found!

If by chance, I be torn down . . .

Not for long to stay,

But, reaching forth, to climb again . . .

On the morrow of the day!

Should I be trampled, left for dead . . .

With no hope to be found

May God breathe, life anew, once more . . .

And lift me from the ground.

Securing me, so firm to him . . .

Attached, by His own hold

Watching fruit, from deep with-in . . .

My climbing vine unfold!

Peggy Jeanine Woody

1/3/1992

This poem was written 25 days before my son lost both feet in a car accident. He lived 18 years after that, dealing with phantom pain daily!