A Ford Model A at the crossing stands,
Dusty wheels on restless lands.
Its engine hums a patient song,
While the iron beast lumbers along.

The rails hum low, the ground does quake,
A moment of pause for history’s sake.
And then it comes—the mournful cry,
A steam whistle wail beneath the sky.

Two-tone sorrow, a voice of steel,
Echoing stories the tracks reveal.
Of journeys made and goodbyes said,
Of dreams that rode where the rails led.

The driver waits, hands firm on the wheel,
Lost in the sound, the weight he feels.
For time seems frozen, past meets now,
As the whistle’s howl whispers its vow.

When the train moves on and the crossing clears,
The pickup rolls forward, erasing fears.
Yet that steam whistle song lingers still,
A ghostly tune, a memory’s thrill.

Created by
MarkWaldrop

How many there are who rest at ease,
Believing grace requires no pleas.
“Jesus paid it all,” they softly say,
While turning their hearts the other way.

But grace is not a passive song,
A debt erased, then we move along.
It calls us forth, with hands outstretched,
To heal the wounds the world has etched.

For Christ, who bore the cross of shame,
Did not endure for hollow acclaim.
He paid it all, yes, this is true,
But left a charge for me and you.

To walk His path, to share His light,
To bring the lost from dark to bright.
To lift the broken, seek the stray,
And show God’s love in every way.

So let us not forget the cost,
Or why He came to save the lost.
The call is clear, His footsteps lead,
A life of love is what we need.

Created by
MarkWaldrop

Take time to stop and smell the roses,
Life rushes by as the door closes.
In the bloom of red, the softest hue,
Lies a moment waiting just for you.

The world may spin with endless haste,
But joy is found in moments chased.
A petal’s curve, a fragrant breeze,
A quiet pause beneath the trees.

Take time to hear the robin’s song,
To watch the clouds drift slow and long.
For beauty whispers, soft and sweet,
In every corner, at your feet.

The roses wait, their story untold,
A fleeting treasure, more precious than gold.
So pause, be still, let the world compose
Take time to stop and smell the rose.

Created by
MarkWaldrop

It’s the smallest things that make a life,
A whispered word, a softened strife.
A glance, a touch, a fleeting smile,
Moments that linger, just for a while.

The morning light through windowpanes,
The rhythm of softly falling rain.
A child’s laughter, a warm embrace,
The quiet joy of a familiar face.

The scent of bread, the bloom of spring,
A songbird’s call, the joy they bring.
A cup of tea, a hand to hold,
The warmth that lingers when nights are cold.

It’s not the grand, the loud, the bold,
But tiny threads of silver and gold
That weave the tapestry of our days,
Binding hearts in intricate ways.

So cherish the little, the small, the slight,
The glow of stars on a quiet night.
For life is built on these gentle things—
A world of whispers, where meaning sings.

Created by
MarkWaldrop

I am called to live, not for my own acclaim,
But to bear the light of His holy name.
A perfect bond with God I seek,
To let His strength shine through my weak.

Not admiration for who I appear to be,
But a yearning for Him through what others see.
For thoughts of self are chains that bind,
Hindering the work of the divine.

God’s purpose isn’t a showcase display,
But a vessel refined for His chosen way.
Not polished pride, but a heart made pure,
To carry His message, steadfast, sure.

So I surrender, let Him take control,
Molding my life to fulfill His goal.
Whatever He asks, wherever He leads,
I trust in His plan; He meets my needs.

Lord, make me useful, humble, and true,
A mirror of grace that reflects only You.
For when I am nothing, Your power is known,
Through me, may Your glory alone be shown.

Created by
MarkWaldrop