She struggled to death’s dying door,
But not for her—for you.
Your frame was growing day by day.
She had to act—she knew.
She heard the shame, the guilt, the pain
That built up deep inside.
“This is my only choice,” she spoke,
“This life is meant to die.”
But then a voice cried out to her
To stop and see your life.
She wiped her tears and turned its way—
She pushed away the knife.
The voice showed her your growing feet,
Your tiny hands, your eyes,
And slowly as she watched you breathe,
She closed her eyes to cry.
She saw your life, she felt your pulse,
And calmly walked away.
She looked up to the skies and prayed—
Your death is not this day.