Ballad of the Unborn

My shining feet will never run on early morning lawn;
My feet were crushed before they had a chance to greet the dawn.

My fingers now will never stretch to touch the winning tape;
My race was done before I learned the smallest steps to take.

My growing height will never be recorded on the wall;
My growth was stopped when I was still unseen, and very small.

My lips and tongue will never taste the good fruits of the earth;
For I myself was judged to be a fruit of little worth.

My eyes will never scan the sky for my high—flying kite;
For when still blind, destroyed were they in the black womb of night.

I’ll never stand upon a hill, Spring’s winds in my hair;
Aborted winds of thought closed in on Motherhood’s despair.

I’ll never walk the shores of life or know the tides of time;
For I was coming but unloved, and that my only crime.

Nameless am I, a grain of sand, one of the countless dead;
But the deed that made me ashen grey floats on seas of red.

(Fay Clayton, Christian Crusade Weekly, January 13, 1976)