Sticks and Stones

I make my bed with sticks and stones
Of hurtful words that break my bones,
Arrange myself on stumps and lumps
And try to spend the night.

I close my eyes, I do my best,
But cannot sleep, can’t even rest.
Around ‘n round ‘n round ‘n round
Go words that sting and bite.

The stones, now grown to boulder size,
Help sticks, become as knives:
Relief of mind I cannot find,
Though pray with all my might.

And then so soft and gently near
A tender voice says, “Child don’t fear!
I stole the words your ears have heard
And bathed you in my light.”

So now at last sweet sleep can come,
Those hurtful words have been undone.
And sticks and stones that broke my bones
Have vanished in the night.