Why are you here but for the act of others;
Did they embrace in love—it matters not.
Where is your father or yet your mother
And do they care of him that chance begot?
What of the hands that rocked the newborn cradle?
Whose breast or bottle satisfied the cries?
Who left you on the stoop beneath that steeple,
Alone and cold beneath blank heaven’s eyes?
Yet you survived against bleak biased odds
There so to thrive despite that mark of shame,
To lead the course of every bastard’s cause
And carve in stone the wonders of your name.
On hope alone sometimes the die are cast;
Sweet life’s a gift with never why to ask.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.