RURAL BRYANT, SD, PRESENTS:
by Ron Ginther
the faces of loved ones--
greet me over the miles.
There's Grandma's and Grandpa's,
and my Mother's so dear--
I know she is proud of me,
I see joy in her tear.
just a few steps each day.
But by the Word I keep to the straight way.
Sometimes I fall down and I weep,
that day all I can do is crawl or creep.
How many times that has been,
I cannot tell!
they don't see it's Christ alone in me.
But no matter, there's a few saints who
come along aside,
and make a prayerful plea.
let others take the low road
and kill on Black Friday for the latest styles.
These rocks and thistles--
oh, they hurt, and they give pain,
but there's beautify, enless joy,
just ahead that I'll yet gain.
with their shining examples before me,
I can resist Satan's wiles.
His lures in the world,
they don't charm me a bit.
As I loose my hands on passing things,
I don't love this world a whit!
whose hearts grown cold, and ears stone deaf?
I pray for them daily--
as they rush around like stoned on meth.
The world's their drug--
They can't seem to get enough.
Oh! They can't see their fate
that's just over the bluff.
They all race in a tight, rat-pack,
their end? Caught in a coal-black sack!
I long to be with you all
where you stand on pure gold tiles.
It won't be so long--
my Jesus draws near.
He could come today,
calling me, and I'll hear!