My Little Chickadee

My wings are broken, my feathers plucked
and I can hardly sing melodies.
Yet on sun’s first rise, behold, my eyes!
Fresh manna among the leaves.

I set from my brood, my eyes on true food
and hope that these wings might soar.
But I am weak and poor, will I make it— I’m unsure!
Yet my eyes remain fixed on the forest floor.

I glide through the trees frail with infirmities
to feast on the bread of Heaven.
But to my distress, a dark and stormy guest
looms over the green canopies.

Claps of loud thunder and hail;
surely now, I will fail.
But He’s promised a race, oh help me Lord keep pace!

I descend in flight, nourishment now in sight
Determined in all my might.

Alas, to my right, Satan’s gale
snags my tail
and throws me like a kite that has never learned to sail.

Down I fall
No song
No call
Anticipating departure from this weary land,
instead I am caught into a Familiar Hand.

He lifts me up to His Shining Face, a smile ear-to-ear, and says,
“Little bird, keep running the race.
Have no fear, thou I embrace.
Sufficient is My grace for thee,
My little chickadee.”