My mother led me in this simple prayer When I was just a lad, with tousled hair. She knelt beside me, soft and kind, And helped me speak with heart and mind:
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Those words were seeds, so gently sown, That bloomed in years as I had grown. Through battles fought and joys well earned, To God I turned, in peace or burned.
I prayed through storms, both fierce and wide, With trembling lips or lifted pride. Some prayers were bold, some whispers low, But He was there through all I’d know.
And now, as twilight veils the day, And earthly light begins to fade, The time has come—He calls me near, And all that’s left is trust, not fear.
I mouth the words I’ve always known, No grander speech, no prideful tone:
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.
So take me, Lord, in arms of grace To heaven’s rest, to love’s embrace. A child once more, I close my eyes, And rise with You beyond the skies.
The clock keeps ticking, the moments pass, Like shadows sliding on panes of glass. You’ve waited long, you’ve felt the call A whisper deep, beyond it all.
Don’t delay, make your decision today, Tomorrow might steal the chance away. The door stands open, the light shines through, And Heaven waits with love for you.
The world will offer empty gain, But only Christ can break the chain. So take the step, don’t turn aside— Let grace and mercy be your guide.
For life begins when you kneel and pray Don’t delay, make your decision today.
For His Honor and Glory MarkWaldrop
2Co 6:2 (For he saith, I have heard thee in a time accepted, and in the day of salvation have I succoured thee: behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.)
The streets were lined with waving palms, Hosannas rose in joyful psalms. The King rode in on borrowed steed, To fill the world’s most urgent need.
On Monday’s path, He cleansed the place, Where hearts had strayed from holy grace. With righteous fire, He cast out wrong His truth like thunder, clear and strong.
By Tuesday’s sun, He taught once more, Of Heaven’s gate and mercy’s door. The crowds grew still, the shadows near, Yet still He spoke, though death drew near.
On Wednesday, silence cloaked the land, Betrayal stirred in greed’s dark hand. A kiss was planned, a coin was paid, The Son of Man by friend betrayed.
Then Thursday came, the upper room, A basin, bread, and coming gloom. He broke the loaf, He blessed the cup, And knelt to wash—then lifted up.
In midnight’s hush, in garden deep, While others fled or fell to sleep, He bore the weight, the crushing dread “Thy will, not mine,” is what He said.
Friday’s sky turned black with grief, The Lamb was slain, the thief found belief. The veil was torn, the earth did shake The curse of sin began to break.
On Saturday, the world stood still, The tomb was sealed upon the hill. Hope seemed lost, all dreams undone Yet silence waited for the Son.
Then Sunday’s dawn lit up the skies, The stone rolled back, the dead did rise! No grave could hold, no seal contain The Risen Lord who broke all chains.
So every step of Holy Week Speaks to the soul of love we seek. From palms to cross, from death to rise Redemption’s gift before our eyes.
For His Honor and Glory MarkWaldrop
Mat 21:9 And the multitudes that went before, and that followed, cried, saying, Hosanna to the Son of David: Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest.
The sun rose soft on Vatican stone, Where faithful gathered, hearts full-blown. Palm branches waved through morning light, A sacred sign, a hopeful sight.
Then came a hush—a breath held tight, As robes appeared in gleaming white. A figure known, with steps still slow, But eyes alight with Heaven’s glow.
Pope Francis came through trial and flame, From breathless dark, he rose again. With double storm within his chest, He leaned on God, found strength and rest.
No screen today, no distant call But soul standing tall before them all. A shepherd brave, a soul restored, He blessed the crowd and praised the Lord.
A Palm Sunday no one foresaw A glimpse of grace, a breath of awe. For in his smile, the faithful see God’s mercy meet with victory.
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.
