Poem July 31, 1995 Issue

Stings

Charlotte Egea

Angry words stung like the hornets whose nest was stirred
by a broom held all wrong,
as a boy swept the porch, his job that day,
and I shouted to make my point heard.

The little boy turned from the pain of both stings
to thoughts above from God,
where no evil is real—no stinging, no anger—
and I came to apologize and hug.

As forgiveness shaped thought to agree with His love,
all God's creatures were seen to be harmless;
and where anger once yelled, words without harm were heard by the listener to God—and me.

The porch of our thought needs cleaning each day,
all error's chaff swept and cast out,
in the sweep of our love that knows God's creatures good.
And boys, bees, and words express
peace and love.