A Prayer Chair


There is my mother’s chair.

She opens her Bible,

A notebook and pen,

And spends hours sitting there,

She copies verse after verse,

To pray, to memorize,

To profess out loud,

But not rehearse.

She reads about healing.

She reads Psalms.

How God reached out for us,

Holding us in His palms.

She writes a prayer list,

Of people to pray for.

And reads and writes,

A little more,

His Word is power,

It is given to free us.

He’s there when we pray,

Though no one else may see us.

I like to think that Jesus is sitting there.

Listening to each prayer,

Whiling away the hours,

Resting, faithfully in the prayer chair.

Rebecca Jones

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