The Call

    “The Call,” Ensign, Aug. 1979, 33

    The Call

    Yesterday, or so it seems,

    I heard my mother call,

    “Come home now, dear.”

    And pleading, childlike,

    I begged for time to finish playing,

    For I had just begun.

    “Please, not yet!”

    She understood and, smiling,

    Granted one more hour.

    Seasons passed; my life was full

    Of love and sweet content.

    Suddenly, “Come home,” I heard,

    And pleading, childlike,

    I prayed for time to finish living,

    For I had just begun.

    “Please, not yet!”

    He heard and answered

    But did not say how long.

    Remembering, I sometimes fear

    That as todays are spent,

    My borrowed hours

    Are worldly, wasted,

    For I may hear, perhaps tomorrow,

    “Come home, just as you are.”

    Ready? Worthy?

    Too well I know—

    No time to finish then.