The Little Lame Angel

 

My mother, who passed away almost four years ago, was always a writer at heart, and the melancholy in her had a special love for poetry. When she died I inherited boxes of papers with her jottings. For the most part they still need to be gone through. Perhaps in 2021. 

But this one piece of paper, typed on her Underwood typewriter, is awfully special to me. It's the very first poem she ever wrote, in 1961, when I was 6 years old. At the time my two younger brothers were two and four, and I wonder if one or both of them was the inspiration for this poem? In 1997 she gave me this typed copy for Christmas, with her apology - "Bev, this is singsong, and critics would say it's trite, corny, but I send it to you because it is the very first poem I ever tried to write." 

So for my siblings, and my children, and their children, for Christmas 2020, a special poem from your mother and grandmother and great-grandmother. It's precious to me, and I think it would make a lovely children's book someday. 

The Little Lame Angel, by Judith Boaz

A heavenly host of angels

came down from up on high

to serenade the Christ Child

beneath a starry sky, 

but left alone in Heaven above,

his eye brushed by a tear,

one little cherub sat and watched,

and wished that he were there.

Though sad to say, just yesterday

this angel broke a wing

while playing leapfrog over clouds,

and could not go and sing,

then God in Heaven saw him there,

forlorn and oh so blue,

and reassured him with a smile,

"I'll fix your wing for you."

With most angelic courtesy

the angel thanked Him true,

Then, trying out his mended wing,

down to the earth he flew.

With head bowed low, and heartfelt joy

he sang melodic praise

to Christ, God's newborn baby Son

on that first Christmas Day.

Merry Christmas everyone.