The kitchen’s dark, the cookies fresh—
Their smell calls out my name.
Should I sneak downstairs and take one
And then deny the blame?
Mom made them all for Sister Polk—
She’s sick and kind of old.
They’re special cookies with no fat,
Much better than pure gold.
OK, I’m young and feel just fine.
I know to choose the right.
But more, my Heavenly Father
Has me always in His sight.
And I want Him to see that I’m
Obedient, straight, and true.
And if I ask first, Mom just might
Give me one or two.