Pass the Biscuits, Please

I remember growing up,
Sundays after church was done,
Chicken dinner on the table,
Momma with her apron on.
Offered up, a silent prayer,
As we passed around the black-eyed peas,
Silence broken when someone said,
“Pass the biscuits, Please.”

Daddy cursed the coffee stain
On his favorite shirt.
All the boys can’t wait to go
Play some baseball in the dirt.
But Mom insisted we take our time
Before everybody leaves. She said,
“Let’s enjoy a little conversation,
So, pass the biscuits please.”

Preacher says that “to be a family
Is such a precious thing,
The kind of gift that will lift you up
And make your spirit sing.”
I thank the Lord for the things I’ve got
Each night on bended knees,
And Momma’s sweet love in these four words,
“Pass the biscuits, Please.”

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