My wings, my wings, I’ve felt them grow.
They’re made to fly, I know,
And yet they’re cramped and tightly bound.
I want them freed to fly around;
And feel the breezes blow.
My wings, my wings, for freedom cry;
They itch to reach the sky.
It’s irksome to be tightly bound,
And not be free to fly around;
My wings were made to fly.
My wings, when can I stretch my wings?
When loose their binding strings?
My wings are cramped and tightly bound,
And can’t be used to fly around —
What idle, worthless things!
Some call my trap a safe cocoon.
Escape they think is ruin.
I only know I’m tightly bound,
And can’t get free to fly around.
I long for freedom soon.
The Maker of my wings can see
They ache to be set free,
Yet He has left them tightly bound,
And hasn’t let them fly around.
Might this be best for me?
My wings, are they not ready yet?
Still tender, weak, and wet?
Is that how come they’re tightly bound?
And can’t be used to fly around?
Is freedom still a threat?
My God most certainly designed
My wings with flight in mind.
They can’t be always tightly bound,
They’ll some day spread to fly around,
No more as now confined.
My wings must not resent disuse,
But wait their time for use.
They’ll rest content, though tightly bound,
And not yet free to fly around,
Till God has set them loose.
~ Nita Brainard