A kind and gentle man was he, Full of love and honesty. But the mystery of Christ’s descent, To him, seemed strange and poorly spent.
“The incarnation makes no sense,” He said, with logic as defense. God becoming man to save, Felt like a tale the faithful gave.
On Christmas Eve, his family went, To church, in worship reverent. He stayed behind with hearth aglow, Unmoved by truths he didn’t know.
But then a sound, a frantic thud, Shook his peace and stirred his blood. At the window, again it came, A muffled beat, a desperate aim.
He ventured out into the cold, And there, a scene began to unfold. A flock of birds, lost in the storm, Shivered, seeking shelter warm.
His heart, so tender, swelled with care, To save the birds from bitter air. The barn! A haven, safe and dry, He opened the door, the light held high.
But fear had gripped the fragile flock, His human presence felt a shock. He scattered crumbs, he waved them near, But still, they fled in helpless fear.
“If only I could be like them,” He thought, beneath the moon’s dim hem. “To speak their tongue, to share their way, And guide them to the light of day.”
Then from the distance, church bells rang, A holy song the heavens sang. And in that moment, truth took hold, A story ancient, yet retold.
God became man, He stooped so low, To guide the lost through blinding snow. The man, now kneeling, bowed his head, The bells’ sweet song, his spirit fed.
For now he saw what once was dim, Why Christ had come to dwell with him. Like the man and the frightened birds, God showed His love through deeds, not words.
So on that night, beneath the star, The man found God was never far. And in his heart, a fire burned bright, A newfound faith, a guiding light.
A tale unfolds, a melody sweet,
"Come," they beckon, a journey to greet.
Gifts adorned with love, laid at His feet,
In homage to the King, a joy complete.
Yet a humble drummer, giftless it seems,
No treasure to rival the wise men's dreams.
With a beat, a rhythm, his offering beams,
A heart's cadence echoes in silent streams.
Pa rum pum pum pum, the ox and lamb sway,
To the rhythm of love on that sacred day.
A drum played with devotion, a child at play,
He smiled, for in simple gifts, kings find their way.
December 17, 2023
Created by
MarkWaldrop
Memory believes what the heart holds true, A flicker of light in the morning dew. It whispers of moments we cannot retrieve, The fragments of time that we choose to believe.
Before knowing remembers, the soul still feels, The brush of the past, the wounds it heals. A scent, a sound, or a fleeting glance, Can summon a world in a wordless dance.
The touch of a hand, the echo of laughter, The shadows of dreams we endlessly chase after. For memory sees what eyes cannot find, A portrait of love in the halls of the mind.
So let memory believe and knowing delay, For in its embrace, the past will stay. A bridge to the moments that slip through our fingers, Where the heart remembers and the soul still lingers.
Created by MarkWaldrop
Memory believes before knowing remembers. William Faulkner
The Holy Spirit begins to move, A gentle wind, a sacred groove. Through hearts united, pure and true, God’s love blooms in me and you.
We are His hands, His feet, His light, Guided by faith through day and night. A mission given, a sacred mirth, To share the news of Jesus’ birth.
The world may waver, hearts may stray, Yet love prevails, it lights the way. So here we stand, in joy and worth, Proclaiming Christ, our Savior’s birth.
Christmas comes with a gentle glow, A season of wonders, hearts to know. A time to believe, to hold, to see, The magic of love in you and me.
The twinkle of lights, the carols sung, The joy of gifts for old and young. Yet deeper still, a truth appears, The power of miracles through the years.
A babe in a manger, humble and small, Bringing a hope that transcends us all. A love so pure, it lights the way, Through winter nights and every day.
So let us believe in the season’s charm, In hearts that heal, in hands that warm. For Christmas reminds us of what’s divine: The miracle of love, your heart, and mine.
The brightest days often follow the night, When shadows retreat at the dawn’s first light. Life is a puzzle, a game we play, With trials that shape us along the way.
The path grows steep, the burdens immense, Tests arrive, breaking our confidence. But just as the darkness seems too much to bear, A breakthrough whispers, “You’re almost there.”
Each challenge faced is a door to ascend, A chance to grow, a means to transcend. The trials refine us, like fire to gold, Pushing us forward, brave and bold.
The game of life, with levels and foes, Teaches us wisdom as each chapter flows. Victories come, and the sun shines bright, Until the next test emerges from night.
But take heart, for this is the way we grow, Each cycle of struggle teaches us to know That the darkest moments prepare the soul, To reach higher levels, to become whole.
So hold on tightly, though the storm may rage, You’re turning the chapter, you’re turning the page. For after the night, the dawn will break through, The brightest days are waiting for you.
Created by MarkWaldrop
Psa 30:5 For his anger is but for a moment, and his favor is for a lifetime. Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.
The brightest days often follow the night, When shadows retreat at the dawn’s first light. Life is a puzzle, a game we play, With trials that shape us along the way.
The path grows steep, the burdens immense, Tests arrive, breaking our confidence. But just as the darkness seems too much to bear, A breakthrough whispers, “You’re almost there.”
Each challenge faced is a door to ascend, A chance to grow, a means to transcend. The trials refine us, like fire to gold, Pushing us forward, brave and bold.
The game of life, with levels and foes, Teaches us wisdom as each chapter flows. Victories come, and the sun shines bright, Until the next test emerges from night.
But take heart, for this is the way we grow, Each cycle of struggle teaches us to know That the darkest moments prepare the soul, To reach higher levels, to become whole.
So hold on tightly, though the storm may rage, You’re turning the chapter, you’re turning the page. For after the night, the dawn will break through, The brightest days are waiting for you.
Created by MarkWaldrop
Psa 30:5 For his anger is but for a moment, and his favor is for a lifetime. Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.
Unto us, a child is born, A gift of love on earth’s cold morn. A Son is given, a light to shine, God’s perfect promise, pure, divine.
The weight of the world upon His shoulder, A King whose reign grows ever bolder. Yet gentle He comes, with mercy’s embrace, Bringing salvation, restoring grace.
Wonderful Counselor, wisdom’s guide, In Him all truth and peace reside. Mighty God, in strength He stands, The sovereign ruler of all lands.
Everlasting Father, timeless and true, His love endures in all we do. Prince of Peace, His calm will reign, Breaking the chains of sin and pain.
Unto us, this child is given, A bridge to earth, a path to Heaven. Rejoice, for His kingdom will never cease— Jesus, our Savior, the Prince of Peace.
Created by MarkWaldrop
Isa 9:6 For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
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.
