Mother

She cries herself to sleep at night,

Her cardboard box tucked out of sight,

A house of sorts it keeps her dry,

And out of sight from passers by,

By day the chill wind blows again,

Yet still she asks the question 'When?'

But every night she falls asleep,

With tears rolling down her cheek,

And far away upon a hill,

Her infant daughter sleeps so still,

Born asleep and never cried,

So from the world her mother hides,

Again the faces turn away,

Another cardboard house today,

Another vagrant to avoid,

Another heart that's been destroyed,

A cup of soup, a slice of bread,

Then off she goes to make her bed,

She sleeps this night under the skies,

As best she can, despite her cries,

And far away upon a hill,

Her daughter lies so cold and still,

Born asleep, yet still so loved,

And fostered by the Lord above,