Abortion poem. Turn Up The Music!

In Germany, the churches sang their hymns, as the trains would rumble by!
Cars, and more cars, were stuffed with Jews, heading for death camps, where they would die!
The trains, the trains, made the church music, difficult to hear.
The trains, the trains, they drew too near.
The pastors had a practical solution, have no fear!
The pastors decided that, the music, the pretty music, must ring forth, loud and clear.
So, they directed, turn up the music, as the congregation sings!
Sing louder, sing louder, to the King of Kings.
Singing sweet hymns and fellowship, just a few of our favorite things.
How easily we Christians criticize Germany, as we proclaim with pride,
That we would never have stood by while Jewish people died!
And what do we do when silent death rips babies from the womb?
What do we do when millions are swallowed without so much as a tomb!
We too, turn the music louder, and sing to the King of Kings.
We see not, that God's wrath is off stage, pacing in the wings!

A poem about Michael J Fox and his obsession with fetal stem cells
Chris Hansen

Michael J Fox,
Is in his tiny box.
Fetal stem cells have his mind all twisted,
As if adult stem cells never even existed!
Adult stem cells cure, and these aren’t just rumors.
Fetal stem cells don’t, and they even cause tumors!
These microscopic humans are not expendable,
And these tiny people aren’t even dependable.
Michael J Fox is really quite ill,
But does that give him the right to kill?
When it comes to a genuine cure,
Adult stem cells are morally pure,
And the best part of all, is that their value is sure.

A poem about partial birth abortion and guns
Chris Hansen

You who complain about gun violence,
And yet regarding partial birth abortion, there is an awkward silence!
You’re angry about what the Supreme court did.
Can’t you even protect a dangling kid?
Yeah, I know, Bush’s ban is in place,
But you’ll push the congress when it changes its face,
And you’ll push the whitehouse when you get a new president,
And you’ll leap for joy when the Whitehouse gets a new resident!
Bullets rip through bodies, and this you decry!
But a girl has the right to watch her baby die?
When it comes to gun violence, you mourn the dead,
Yet you can crush a baby’s head?
You’re horrified when victims of gun violence bleed and moan,
But when babies dangle feet first, you take a different tone!
If the birth canal exposes the feet, not the head,
It’s okay for the baby to end up dead!
Ah, yes, plunge in those scissors, suck out the brain!
Who cares how the baby thrashes in pain!
If you can’t see the head, go ahead and abuse!
After all, the woman has the right to choose!
However, some standard of decency we all must meet.
Just make sure the doctor only sees the baby’s feet!
Oh, and the mother’s health must be protected!
Even a little tear must be respected.
We wouldn’t want her to undergo emotional distress!
So, crush the child’s head and bury the mess!
Kill the child as hands and feet flail,
But if you first see the head, then you go to jail!
Do you think this poem is out of control?
If you do then you’ve already lost your soul!

A poem. Abortion. What about rape or incest?
Chris Hansen

Inside, outside, upside-down!
Moral outrage, if, your baby you drown.
But inside the womb, we barely frown.
Outside the womb, “never, never kill!” we loudly protest,
“Not even in cases of rape or incest.”
But inside the womb, don’t even suggest!
Inside the womb, don’t even hint about incest or rape.
Now, when does morality change its shape?
Morality knows nothing of “how old, or how long.”
Morality defends the weak or the strong.
Morality doesn’t change the words to its song.
Morality doesn’t play ping pong.
Inside, or outside, its right, or its wrong.

Abortion and the death penalty. A poem. Make Love Not War
Chris Hansen

Make love not war?
You don’t want our soldiers dying anymore?
You don’t want anymore criminal execution?
Well, then, are you willing to give up abortion as your solution?
You don’t want policemen shooting folks and sending them to their tombs?
Well then, we don’t want babies ripped from their mothers’ wombs!
Hey, out there, are there any takers?
Or, are you merely rhetorical fakers?

Wombstone
Chris Hansen
This poem is based on a true experience that was recounted to me, and shows the sort of thing that typically goes on in an abortion clinic.

"Don't look," the nurse began to scold;
but I did look, I had to look, I saw the sheet.
I saw that bloody bundle in the fold!

"You'll forget." That's what they said;
but how can I forget that my little baby's dead!

My God! My God! My little one!
My little daughter, my little son!
Jesus forgive me for what I've done!
My God! My God! My little one!

"You'll forget." That's what they said;
but how can I forget that my baby's dead!

"Have some orange juice, my dear."
I wipe away a little tear.
"It hurts a little, but I'm ok;"
but that isn't what I really want to say!

"You'll forget." That's what they said;
but how can I forget that my baby's dead!

I see other women with empty wombs,
Which have become their children’s tombs!
They stare at me with empty eyes,
and something in me slowly dies!

"You'll forget." That's what they said;
but how can I forget that my baby's dead!

Mother's milk began to flow from me.
"I don't understand. How can this be?"
"The fetus was more advanced, you see,"
the nurse said reassuringly.

"You'll forget." That's what they said;
but how can I forget that my baby's dead!

Late that night, the pain grew worse, and then I bled!
I cried and wished that I were dead.
And in the blood that I now shed,
I saw my little baby's head!

"You'll forget." That's what they said;
but how can I forget that my baby's dead!

"We thought we got it all, my dear.
Don't hesitate to call, my dear.
Don't worry dear, you'll be all right."
Won't anybody hold me, and get me through this lonely night!

"You'll forget." That's what they said;

Abortion poem. Is it a blob or is he Bob
Chris Hansen

In abortion, just what is the issue?
Is it a person, or is he tissue?
Is it a blob?
Or is his name Bob?
Is it a mere choice?
“I prefer her looks?” Or, “I prefer his voice?”
Or, “Well, I just prefer this kind of song?”
Or, are we saying, “Abortion is right, or abortion is wrong!”
If it’s not a matter of wrong or right,
Then there is simply no reason to fight.
You prefer Mozart, I prefer Bach,
We may disagree, but we can still have civil talk.
So, how do we treat abortion? In what sense or in what respect?
Is it merely a choice, or is it a duty to protect?
Under what conditions can this child be abused?
On this issue we’re so confused!
The sonogram shows that she’s a girl! “Let’s name her Jill.”
But if it’s not wanted, it’s okay to kill?
The sonogram shows that he’s a boy! “Let’s name him Bob.”
But government decrees that you get to decide if it’s a boy or a blob!
Just like Ronnie Dangerfield, life in the womb “don’t get no respect!”
But we’d all better be politically correct!
Within the womb, like mere weeds, rip out whatever grows,
Best not look too closely though at wiggling fingers and toes!but I'll never forget, that my little baby's dead!

Abortion poem when did I become me?
Chris Hansen

Just when did I become me?
I received my DNA immediately.
So, from conception on, every cell was human-every cell of me!
My miraculous computer code was there from the very start.
My instructional code was there, weeks before the beating of my heart.
In only 3 weeks, my heart began to beat.
It would still take months for this process to be complete.
In forty days my human brainwaves could be detected.
Abortion is a moral judgment that says, this miracle should be rejected!
In three months, my fingerprints were already unique.
They arrived long before I could ever speak.
In twenty weeks, I was able to feel agonizing pain!
By this time, awareness of torture could slam into my brain!
We abort after this awareness? Are we insane?
After 24 weeks, womb children can be kept alive.
Who are we to decide that they need not survive?
Through abortion, a third of our pregnancies die.
No wonder God will strike a third of the stars from the sky!
Is it merely coincidence that a third of the angels fell?
Could abortion be a hideous plot from Hell?
Every aborted child is a treasure lost before birth.
They are safe in heaven, but their gifts are lost to earth!
One abortion might have cured cancer, but we will never know.
We took these miracles and handed them to the devil, our ancient foe!
Is there any reason why God should save us now?
God’s mercy spared us these many years, though I don’t know why or how!

A Poem About Terri Schiavo
Chris Hansen

I dreamed about the distant future. I saw an awesome sight!
People stood before Almighty God! Some on His left, some on His right.
I saw all people from first to last.
I saw them all, from the far future to the ancient past.
They came and came from their watery graves.
I saw the mightiest of kings, and the lowliest of slaves.
They rose from graveyards, from the dust of the ground.
I saw those who died and had never been found.
I saw tiny children with wonder and wisdom on each face.
I saw mothers run to meet them, and cry with each embrace!
I saw the old looking young again, as they looked into Jesus' eyes.
Jesus looked with burning eyes, to search each heart for truth or lies.
People stood on His right and left, but could clearly see each other.
I saw families divided, sister from brother, daughter from mother.
Then I heard His mighty voice:
He said, "Michael Schiavo, you made your choice!
I died of hunger but you did not care.
I suffered with thirst as I laid there.
I died very slowly, day after day.
Courts and police made sure you got your way.
But Heaven's gates shook as the people would pray!
My Father has answered each person, each prayer!
Your place is reserved! And I think you no where!
Know this my son, you shall live forever!
Your abyss is bottomless! Your escape is never!
Your mind will suffer eternal regret!
Your mind is eternal! You shall never forget!
Terri burned with thirst, but you will burn with flame!
She burned for a time, but your forevers will always be the same!
She suffered half conscious, but you'll be awake!
She escaped her torment, but none shall you take!
Now go to your destiny, as you have chosen to do!
Depart from me! I never knew you!"
Michael's eyes were filled with fear.
He knew it was forever, and that he had brought himself here!
Terri's eyes met his, across the great chasm between.
A look of sweet pity was all that could bee seen.
Jesus held Terri with each comforting arm.
His smile told her she would never know harm.
Michael and Terri glanced one last time, far across,
one look of great comfort, one look of great loss.
How tragic, I thought, Jesus died to forgive!
If only, if only, Michael had just helped her live!
For the rest of time, forever alone in his fate,
Michael will wail, "If only, if only, but now its too late! Too Late! To Late!