I sent you a gift the other day,
But you did not open it,
You saw from whence it came,
And just threw it away.

The gift was in a plain box,
Wrapped in plain brown paper,
No elegant script upon it,
Just tossed like a pair of old socks.

When you didn't open it on a lark,
You missed a delightful book,
And stroking the soft leather cover,
Instead you closed your heart.

Oft' times people do not see inside,
Just glancing at the outside,
Casting away their gift,
Not knowing what it could provide.

My gift was given of free choice,
But you chose not to see it,
You will never know what you lost,
The gift was of myself, my voice.

February 14, 2003