Give me salve for the wounds

Of your children.

They are tortured

And silently scream for help.

I know they cannot heal alone.

They use bandages to hide

And change them from time to time,

But the wounds!—

The wounds are infected

And will not be forgotten.

I am a helper.

I march softly.

I will uncover the gangrenous mess

And offer Your antiseptic.

Cleansing brings pain—stinging pain—

But heals from the inside out

Leaving only a scar of experience

Reminding us to flee danger.

Betsy