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.”