This poem came to light recently courtesy of my nephew who found it hidden among the usual family documents.
It was written in 1969 by my late brother John who was a great influence on my own Catholic faith and whose example probably was the main guide to my own orthodoxy.
John wrote the poem following a newspaper report (22nd May 1969) regarding an aborted baby crying out while on its way to the incinerator - a thought that is hard and abhorrent to contemplate.
So, on the first day of the 40 Days for Life, on behalf of my nephew, Michael, I dedicate this to those attending vigils being held throughout the world.
It was written in 1969 by my late brother John who was a great influence on my own Catholic faith and whose example probably was the main guide to my own orthodoxy.
John wrote the poem following a newspaper report (22nd May 1969) regarding an aborted baby crying out while on its way to the incinerator - a thought that is hard and abhorrent to contemplate.
So, on the first day of the 40 Days for Life, on behalf of my nephew, Michael, I dedicate this to those attending vigils being held throughout the world.
Hear me O God. Hear.
From the depths of my condemned cell I cry.
None will hear me but You because You see,
I have no vote.
I did not murder nor did I steal or wound.
Yet I am held here helpless before the sterile steel.
Or the poisoned needle.
A death too brutal for murderers is a death
reserved for me.
No comforting breast nor loving Mother's arms await me.
My body will be given to be burned.
What have I done? I have not earned
this sordid unlamented end.
In sin was I conceived. Unwanted I die
before I shall be born.
O when the metal enters my brain,
when I shall kick my last convulsive agony,
take me, take me to Your arms.
None will console me, none cherish me.
None hear my last suffocated
shriek from the traitorous womb.
Save You, save only You.
O love me God.
John Francis Collins RIP
From the depths of my condemned cell I cry.
None will hear me but You because You see,
I have no vote.
I did not murder nor did I steal or wound.
Yet I am held here helpless before the sterile steel.
Or the poisoned needle.
A death too brutal for murderers is a death
reserved for me.
No comforting breast nor loving Mother's arms await me.
My body will be given to be burned.
What have I done? I have not earned
this sordid unlamented end.
In sin was I conceived. Unwanted I die
before I shall be born.
O when the metal enters my brain,
when I shall kick my last convulsive agony,
take me, take me to Your arms.
None will console me, none cherish me.
None hear my last suffocated
shriek from the traitorous womb.
Save You, save only You.
O love me God.
John Francis Collins RIP
Please help this poem gain coverage in the hope that it may reach into the hearts of the politicians, doctors, nurses and others who are involved in this barbaric practice.
Thank you, Richard, for posting this beautiful poem. Tweeted, sent to Facebook, and will try to link.
ReplyDeleteGod bless!
John Francis Collins RIP +
ReplyDeleteA hard poem to read; if you are happy for me to do so, I'll put a copy up on my blog ...
ReplyDelete
ReplyDeleteThank you Father, that would be excellent. Richard
I've held off posting a reply to this beautiful poem but the image of that poor, dear child crying on the way to the incinerator just won't leave me and reduces me to tears. May God have mercy and may His wrath destroy all those institutions set up to destroy the precious gift of life.
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