How Strange, the Heart

How strange, how strange, the ways of God, to my simple way of thinking. How strange, how strange, that once my dad just kept on drinking and drinking. With wife pressed down, his children working and coins weighed in his pockets. Around every bend, the evil there lurking, to wrench his bones from their sockets. No matter what became life's tenure, his soul stayed bound in sorrow, his family snagged deep in penury, their hope fixed on tomorrow. How strange, how strange, the hand of God, whose strength lay in my mother. Although Dad's knife had sliced her thin, she gave her heart to no other.