Night of the Donkey

Trod, trod, trod, my

Hooves have grown sore.

My back is bent.

My load heavy.

My bit is tight.

My meal is poor.

Whoa! Git up! Git! My

Ears grow cold at dark.;

My eyes old and dim.

And I have walked far,

Not knowing what for.

Many miles I mark.

“No,” they all say, “no room,

Not in the boarding home.”

On I tread on hard stone.

My back has grown too stiff.

My heartbeats are too fast.

My bray turns to a groan.

But at last, I stop.

Woken by soft cries,

So I cannot rest.

I stand and listen.

Some food comes my way.

It’s a pleasant prize.

Trod, trod, trod, trod.

I trod again.

Blessed donkey,

I brought her here.

Mother of God,

Blessed I’ve been.