I wish
To be
For my sins.
I’d knock upon
My father’s door,
And ask to be
Let in.

I’d wonder
As I stood outside
If, hearing me,
He’d run
To op’ his gate
And welcome me,
His daughter,
Fin’lly come.

His youthful arms
Now, warm and strong,
Would wrap me
In his Plaid’,
And lead me in
Beside his fire,
A supper
Newly laid.

And then he’d see
How slow I walked,
And how I hung
My head.
I’d come to ask
For the things I’d done,
I’d said.

For in this world
Him, I loved most,
When dandling
On his knee,
Protected, safe,
Beloved then,
My da’,
My hero, he.

Then I’d confess
My book of acts,
Large, and small,
And silent, sitting,
He would wait,
‘Til I had
Told him all.

My father then,
Would quiet stand
And lead me
To a door,
Where just beyond,
Stacked, countless books,
There mine,
There his,
There all.

And then the books
Would disappear
And only love
Forgiven, worthy,
I would fill
My cup of life,

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