Your fingers touch his forehead
And the reality sinks in
He isn’t just hot from the sun
He has a fever, your little son.
Your heart sqeeezes tight
At his listless pose
And you miss his healthy smile
Hours you sit through the darknesss
Holding his sweaty form
Your own body protesting
But still you keep going
Helpless you see the house get messy
Helpless you don’t get anything done
Helpless you feed your kids fast food
You feel so small to meet the needs of all
You have to turn to the One who holds you
And rest in Him when there is no rest here for you
He is your help, helpless one.
He is your help.
Clara Berge 