By David De Jong
I know of a cantankerous old gent,
Simple in his ways, barely worth a cent.
Takes his days in stride, fixed in a saddle,
Carousin’ along, in fields of cattle.
Prairie songs spill out his wanderin’ mind,
Each he ponders, and fiddles, to refine.
Most speak of life, some of love, none of hate,
Some won’t make it past, that old pasture gate.
Some he scribbles to keep, else he forgets,
It be words he loses, he most regrets.
They be medicine to an achin’ heart,
Gives a spirit reclaim to a fresh start.
Peace in a sunrise, opens better days,
Even while alone, tired, searchin’ for strays.
He’ll bring em round, if it’s the last he does,
It’s findin’, rescuin’ the lost, what he loves.
Some is tangled, cut and bruised in old wire,
Others are found broken, lonely and tired.
It gives him a purpose, best he’d found yet,
It be those he loses he’d most regret.
His songs be simple, but come from his heart,
Some annoyin’, like a squeak in a cart.
He knows what it’s like to be lost; a stray,
Got lost in the woods, way back in his day.
Just a small pup cryin’ in the dark of night,
Wanderin’ and wonderin’, lookin’ for light.
If his words can shed some light on the path,
Save a life; from torture, torment or wrath;
Then it be a pretty good, best odds, bet,
This man’s words were written, with no regret.
Long ago, came another, searchin’ strays,
Pages are filled with stories from His days.
Words He spoke with love are written in red,
Words like honeycomb to the soul be fed.
He told stories with meanin’, lessons, too.
Gave up His life: to rescue me, and you.
So it be fittin’ this time, some call lent,
To reflect on this One the Father sent.
Be it in a song, a rhyme, written word,
Let’s give thanks He died and rose on the third.
Let it be said; once more, just once more yet,
Come in from the dark, don’t die with regret.