Here I am, all covered with dust.
Seems I’ve been here for quite some time.
If I were a piece of metal, I’d rust.
Oh, how I wish I could speak my mind.

My cover is a little tattered and worn,
But my pages are still good as new
Because no one has turned them, lately;
Like some of the families do.

They read me some on Holidays,
Like they did last Christmas Eve.
It felt so good, as they opened each page,
Because I know that they still believed.

Then, four months passed, without one page turned, 
And I felt so alone and ashamed;
Until Easter Sunday rolled around.
Then, someone, finally, called out my name.

I felt alive and useful, again,
As they picked me up off the shelf.
They were searching for the Resurrection;
I guess they needed my help.

Now, this dust just keeps piling up on me.
It seems I haven’t been opened in ages.
Oh, I wish the family would pick me up, once again,
And read just a few of my pages.

It makes me feel so good inside,
As they open up each page, so wide,
And I know that it blesses the family, too,
When they read me as the Lord instructs them to do.

© 2006 by Vickie Lambdin vlambdin@bellsouth.net