Theresa Whitworth

My mother always taught me to concentrate on prayer.
Sit up straight, close your eyes, don´t fiddle with your hair.
I never thought I´d see the day, I´d have to sprint while praying,
Not a very holy sight, with all my limbs a flaying.

Now, before you scowl, and purse your lips,
With Christian indignation.
Please listen to the reason,
For my Godless demonstration.

Upon a very distant bridge,
I saw a flash of red.
I knew at once,
It was the hat, on Jacob James´ head

Well of course I tried to call him back,
As all good mothers do.
But Jacob did not listen,
For you see he´s not yet two.

The bridge was twelve feet off the ground.
Below, a swirling lake.
I saw it smack its greedy lips,
Hungry for my Jake.

Across the bridge, a busy road,
Where lorries passed all day.
Believe me, this is not the place,
For tiny tots to play

So I really had no choice you see,
He thought it was a game.
I had to catch him quickly.
So, to my mortal shame

I didn´t kneel or clasp my hands,
Or even bow my head.
I simply called out,
"Oh my God, please help me or he´s dead".

Now, they say God´s omnipresent,
and I reckon it is true,
You see at that very moment,
Jacob ran out of his shoe.


No lorry squashed his little head;
He did not drown;
He was not dead;

So I think a special friend of mine,
Heard this mother´s scream.
And despite the very speedy prayer,
Thought He would intervene.