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| Picture from Pinterest. |
I see the old family Bible,
Sitting quietly on the table.
I look around at the old house,
As rough as a stable.
In the Bible's pages,
Are tucked pictures--memories,
I pick it up, old in my hands,
It's here--and I have the keys.
I open the family Bible,
The pages flip quietly,
I look down at the words,
Wanting to unlock the mystery,
I want to find the precious words,
That I was read long ago.
I wanted to read about the parable,
When the farmer did sow.
About some birds, I'm pretty sure,
It's something that Jesus told,
And I sat down at that table,
And studied that Bible of old.
The pages were worn from many a hand,
Creased from many a teardrop.
But I just kept flipping--flipping on,
At the parable I didn't stop.
I flipped through all the pages,
Some ripped by small children's hands,
And my own teardrops mingle on the page,
As I wonder what's happening to our lands.
That page and serenity of the old family Bible,
Is dying out in this harsh and cruel world.
Where God is forgotten and Jesus is sworn,
And where fates were forgotten unfurled.
