A lover may give you a fleeting kiss, Soft as the breeze, a moment of bliss. A friend may offer a warm embrace, Comforting arms, a kind, familiar face.
But a dog—ah, a dog gives something more, No need for words, no keeping score. He lays his soul at your weary feet, In every wag, his heartbeat sweet.
He asks no promise, expects no part, Only to gift you his loyal heart. Through storm and sun, in joy or pain, He’ll stand by you in loss or gain.
No truer love you’ll ever find, So pure, so patient, so unconfined. For in his eyes, you’ll see the start— Of a bond unbreakable, heart to heart.
The Sound of the Bucket (for the woman at the well)
At four each day, when shadows bend, She takes the path the trees defend. A pail in hand, her pace is slow— She knows each stone the roots outgrow.
No bell, no clock commands her feet, Just silence folding down the street. She walks as though the world is still, Drawn by thirst, by need, by will.
The well is worn, the stones are slick, The rope is frayed, the air is thick. But with a grace that time can’t steal, She drops the bucket, wood and steel.
It sings—a soft, descending song, Of days endured, of years so long. And when it strikes the surface deep, The sound is sharp enough to weep.
She waits. The stillness fills her eyes, Like prayers that never ask the skies. Then hand on crank, she brings it home, The water caught in frothy foam.
No one sees, but still she goes, With aching joints and wintered toes. For memory’s weight is hard to bear, And he once met her daily there.
The bucket groans, the handle turns, The soul beneath the silence yearns. And though the well grows dark and wide, She finds him in the quiet tide.
At four each day, she walks again, Through light and wind, through sun and rain. Not just for water, not for thirst— But for the sound. For what came first.
For His Honor and Glory MarkWaldrop
Jhn 4:11 The woman saith unto him, Sir, thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is deep: from whence then hast thou that living water?
He didn’t grasp the words they said, No charts or scans ran through his head. But something shifted in the air— A silence thick, a weight, a prayer.
The morning walks no longer came, The voice he loved was not the same. No laughter danced across the floor, No hand reached down like times before.
So he stayed. Closer than breath, quiet as light, Through the trembling hours, through the night. His eyes held questions he never voiced, But his heart made an unwavering choice.
And then one day, the room was bare, His person gone—just empty air. But he believed, he still held fast, Love doesn’t flinch, it only lasts.
They let him in. A mercy, small. A door ajar. He found the scent, he knew by star And climbed into that sterile space As if it were a sacred place.
No bark, no cry, no restless stir, Just heartbeat next to heartbeat’s blur. And suddenly, the machines grew still, As love did what no drug or skill Could hope to do. The doctors knew— This dog had work that he must do.
He didn’t seek a single treat. No ball, no leash, no praise, no seat. He needed only one command: To stay. To press against a hand.
For sometimes love is not a sound. It’s not a leap, it’s not a bound. It’s presence, steady as a drum— A quiet vow: I will not run.
He stayed. Until the end, until the light Grew soft and dim and slipped to night. And even then, he wouldn’t roam— For where his human lay… was home.
The happiness of your life, it’s true, Does not depend on what you do— Nor riches gained or mountains climbed, But on the thoughts that shape your mind.
A gentle soul with little gold May live more joy than kings of old, For peace is born where wisdom grows, And calm within the spirit flows.
Arrange your thoughts like rays of sun, With gratitude when day is done. Let kindness be the voice you hear, And hope the compass drawing near.
Each thought’s a seed, and if well sown, It blooms with joy you call your own. So guard your mind, let goodness stay— And happiness will light your way.
For His Honor and Glory MarkWaldrop
Php 4:8 Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.
“You see, boy,” the old man said with a sigh, A faraway glimmer still deep in his eye, “Once in a man’s life, if he’s lucky, he’ll find A love that stays etched in the heart and the mind.
Not the kind folks write in a song or a book, But the kind that you feel with one single look— The kind that don’t speak, but somehow still knows, That walks by your side wherever life goes.
I found it once, long before you were born, In a shaggy ol’ mutt I rescued one storm. She weren’t much to see, not fancy or grand, But Lord, she was loyal and sweet as the land.
She’d wait at the door, rain or shine, night or day, And follow me close every step of the way. Knew what I felt ’fore I’d utter a word— A love like that, boy, it’s felt more than heard.
Now some men get two shots, but most get just one, And when that love leaves, well, the shine leaves the sun. But once is enough, if you hold it just right— Don’t blink, don’t waste it, don’t lose it to night.
So listen real close and remember this true: When love lays its hands on the soul inside you, Don’t ever take it for granted, not once— That kind of love don’t come back more than once.”
(Christ Offers Forgiveness For Everyone Everywhere)
A morning cup, so warm and deep, Awakes the soul from gentle sleep. But greater still than beans we brew, Is grace that flows from One so true.
Christ offers more than daily cheer, Over sin, He draws us near. Forgiveness poured without delay, For hearts that turn and humbly pray.
Everyone—yes, all who fall, Everywhere—He calls them all. No need to earn, no price to pay, Just drink of Him and start your day.
So sip your cup and raise your eyes, To Christ, who heard our hopeless cries. For in each breath, each dawn we share, His love is strong. His grace is there.
There can be no crown without the fight, No dawn without the darkest night. The path to triumph, bold and true, Is lined with trials you must walk through.
No mountain moved by silent plea, No Red Sea parts without the sea. The strength you seek, the faith you gain, Is forged through fire, through storm and strain.
For victory is not just given, It’s in the wrestling, bruised but driven. In weary steps and tear-stained eyes, Where prayers rise up and hopes arise.
So when the battle makes you bend, Remember this is not the end. Each scar you bear, each cry you make, Is proof of ground you dared to take.
God never wastes the war you face He turns your struggle into grace. And when you stand where fear once reigned, You’ll know what every storm contained:
No triumph comes on peaceful breeze— It’s born through wars fought on your knees. There is no victory, proud and bright, Without a battle… without a fight.
For His Honor and Glory MarkWaldrop
Jas 1:12 Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love him.
