Poem by Othel Cowan
Somewhere, up there in Heaven,
A precious gift is about to be given.
Saith the Lord unto the angels above,
A child will be born, with all of my love.
Though his progress may seem slow,
Accomplishment, he may not show.
His thoughts may seem far away,
He may never run, nor play.
In many ways he won't adapt
He'll be known as a handicap.
Let's be careful where he's sent,
I want his life to be content.
With this child sent from us above,
Comes stronger faith and richer love.
The parents won't realize right away,
The leading role they'll be asked to play.
Unto the angels, I'll let them find,
Parents who'll have the special time.
With their charge, so meek and mild,
In caring for, this very precious child.
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