In nineteen twenty-six it rose, a humble, sturdy frame, Grandpa’s hands, both rough and wise, worked wood that bore his name. He cut and milled, each plank and beam, beneath the sky so wide, Crafting not just a house, but dreams, within its walls to reside.
In the living room, in twenty-eight, a new life’s cry was heard, My mother’s first breath, a twist of fate, a future yet unblurred. That room, a cradle of family lore, where beginnings were embraced, A testament to those who came before, and the lives they interlaced.
Years spun like the wheels of time, through seasons, sun, and snow, Until destiny in ‘eighty-seven, whispered soft and low. It called me back to where roots intertwine, to claim what was once sown, To buy that house, that emblem of time, and make it my very own.
It’s not fancy, with its aged wood and doors that softly creak, But it’s home, where love has stood, and walls, if they could, would speak. Of laughter, tears, and moments dear, of family, past and anew, Our old house, through every year, stands resilient, strong, and true.
So here we are, and here we stay, in this house that grandpa made, A beacon through the night and day, where memories never fade. It’s not just a house, but a legacy, a vessel of our story, A testament to what can be, when built with love, not glory.
When the earth comes to an end, the truth will stand, Amidst the rubble and the ruins, stark and grand. In silence deep, where shadows merge and blend, A beacon bright, where all the falsehoods end.
Through fire and storm, through dark and desolate land, Unmoved, unshaken, the pillars of truth withstand. As mountains crumble and oceans retreat, The heart of truth skips not a beat.
In this final hour, as stars dim their light, And darkness seems to claim eternal right, A single flame of truth burns ever bright, A guide, a hope, in the longest night.
So let the earth to ash and dust descend, On truth and love, our spirits will depend. For even when the world reaches its end, The truth, in its glory, will eternally stand.
Whatever you see with your eyes, learn to feel in your heart, For vision is not only sight, but emotion’s art. The hues of dawn, the twilight’s glow, Are more than colors; they’re feelings that flow.
The rustle of leaves, the river’s song, Are stories of the earth, where all belong. Not just with ears, but with your soul, Listen, and let their tales unfold.
The roughness of bark, the softness of rain, Each has a texture, not just a domain. Feel with your fingers, but also within, Let the outside touch where you’ve been.
The fragrance of flowers, the ocean’s brine, Are not just scents but memories in time. Inhale not just with your nose but your being, Capture the essence, the unseen feeling.
For the world is a tapestry, rich and vast, Woven from threads of the present and past. To truly see, to truly know, Feel with your heart, let it show.
So whatever you see with your eyes, wide and clear, Learn to feel in your heart, hold it dear. For the beauty of life, in all its parts, Is found not just in sights, but in the heart’s arts.
In the tapestry of existence, threads of life and death are sewn, A truth as old as time, universally known. Dying is part of living, a silent whisper in the wind, A chapter that concludes, for a new one to begin.
In every breath that fills the air, in every fading light, Is the promise of an ending, the day succumbing to the night. Yet within this cycle, a beauty so profound, In the moments we are given, where life’s true meanings are found.
The leaves that turn from green to gold, then gently fall away, Teach us that in letting go, new life will come someday. The setting sun that dips below, leaving skies of fiery hue, Reminds us that in endings, there’s beauty to be viewed.
For dying is not just a loss, a final, closing door, It’s a part of the journey, a tide upon life’s shore. It shapes our love, our legacy, the memories we’ve spun, The stories that will linger, long after we are gone.
So let us live with hearts wide open, let us love with depth and might, Embracing every sunrise, cherishing each night. For in the dance of life and death, a balance is achieved, And in the act of dying, we learn what it means to believe.
In this grand, eternal cycle, where endings mingle with beginnings, Our spirits find their freedom, our souls get new innings. Dying is part of living, a passage through time’s door, A journey into mystery, where love lives forevermore.
In a world where light and shadows play, Where every dawn ushers in a new day, I find the reasons deep and true, For the love I hold for you.
It’s not just in the laughter bright, Nor in the stars that light the night, But in a grace so vast and free, The love of Jesus, a boundless sea.
He loves me with an endless love, Forgiveness raining from above, In His mercy, I am found, On solid ground, my heart is bound.
So I love you with a heart so full, Echoing His grace, beautiful, For in His light, we find our way, Together, in His love, we stay.
In every smile, in every tear, His love, the compass that we steer, So I love you for many reasons, true, But most of all, because His love shines through.
To a humble man, what could this day be, This Resurrection Day, this mystery? Not just a tale from ancient lore, But a promise of life, forevermore.
It means the dawn after the longest night, A second chance to set things right. The stone rolled away, an empty grave, A sign of the power He has to save.
For a man like me, it whispers grace, In every shadowed, forgotten place. It’s hope when despair seems to win, A gentle reminder of victory over sin.
It’s love that conquered death and fear, A call that every humble heart hears. To rise, though we fall, to forgive, to mend, To believe that beginnings outshine the end.
This day, it means that we are not alone, That we’re loved, called, and known. A promise that our faults and our scars, Are nothing to the One who hung the stars.
So, what does it mean, this day, to me? A gift of grace, so vast, so free. A reminder that no matter how small, Through His resurrection, He redeems us all.
Beneath the vast, awakening sky, Where dreams roam free, and spirits fly, An Arizona sunrise begins to unfold In hues of crimson, amber, and gold.
The desert whispers in hushed tones light As stars fade gently into the night. Cacti stand tall, silhouettes cast; in the fleeting moments, night is surpassed.
Mountains grasp the first rays of day; in their rugged arms, light comes into play. The horizon blushes, a radiant smile Casting its warmth over every mile.
Skies painted in a vibrant array, A masterpiece born at break of day. Birds sing in chorus, a symphony of life, Welcoming the dawn, dispelling strife.
A gentle breeze dances through the air, Carrying promises of stories to share—an Arizona sunrise, a moment so divine, A daily reminder that the world is thine.
So here, beneath the wide, azure dome, We’re reminded of the beauty of home. In every sunrise, there’s a new chance to say, Today will be a beautiful day.
In the silent hours of contemplation’s realm, Where thoughts like mighty ships take the helm, There lies a truth, both stark and bare, “Failing to prepare is preparing to fail,” they declare.
Upon the canvas of the night, stars in alignment, Whispering secrets of success and confinement. For those who in foresight’s garden gently tread, Harvest dreams alive, not shadows of dread.
A lesson taught by time, ancient and wise, That only the prepared meet the sunrise. While others sleep in the bed of procrastination, They wake to the storm of missed realization.
It’s the weaver’s loom, the builder’s square, The navigator’s map, through fog and air. A principle, simple, yet profound, In every endeavor, let preparation abound.
So gather your tools, your plans, your might, Under the moon’s soft glow or the sun’s bright light. For the path to victory, narrow and steep, Is found by those who sow, while others sleep.
In this world of chance, of chaos, of storm, Let preparation be your standard, your norm. For in its embrace, you’ll find the grail, And remember, “Failing to prepare, is preparing to fail.”
