Most folks we knew had Bibles,
the King James version then.
They'd often use its wondrous words
to pray and cope with Sin.
But papa had a diff'rent view,
said, " Thee and Thou seems odd.
I'd rather it was You and me,
when a cowboy speaks to God.
At Sunday-Go-To-Meetin' times
or special-held event,
like weddings, wakes and funerals,
revivals in a tent,
There's nothin' lifts the spirit more
as Heavenward we plod,
but I still hold to You and me,
when a cowboy speaks to God."
The preacher held the Holy Word
He'd read and thump and pause.
The congregation hangin' there
Amens and mixed applause.
But papa took the Good Book out.
He'd read and gently nod.
I'd hear him speak of You and me,
when that cowboy spoke to God.
It's been awhile since papa passed,
but not his words to me.
They're there within my heart each day
til him once more I'll see.
And when this life is done down here,
and golden streets we trod,
I know it will be You and me.
when a cowboy speaks to God.
�2007, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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There's a church in a valley
where a river runs by,
and it stands neath the shade of God's tree.
And it's there I am goin'
in my heart I just know.
From the labors of life I'll be free.
Come ye who are weary the choir softly sings,
and lay down your burdens you're free.
I hear the Lord callin' as He stretches his hand,
"Oh come faithful rider to me."
There is peace in that valley
where a cowboy may rest
and hang up his saddle at last.
And the hymn they are singing
is a promise to me
that even this too now shall pass.
Come ye who are weary the choir softly sings,
and lay down your burdens you're free.
I hear the Lord callin' as He stretches his hand,
"Oh come faithful rider to me."
What a joy in that valley,
where the waters run deep
and the ages like minutes shall roll.
Not a tear shall be shed then,
nor a trespass recalled
as the blood of the Lamb cleans my soul.
Come ye who are weary the choir softly sings,
and lay down your burdens you're free.
I hear the Lord callin' as He stretches his hand,
"Oh come faithful rider to me."
�2007, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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A cowboy sat stirrin' a campfire,
He listened to sounds on the night wind,
By a monitor station in NASA,
He heard the Director explaining
The President looked at the image.
"Zoom in on that one darkened section.
"Just where is that image located?"
"No, sir," said the stunned engineer, now,
The President pondered a moment.
A cowboy sat stirrin' a campfire,
as sparks and smoke rose in the night,
alone on a prairie for hundreds of miles,
from heaven, a pinpoint of light.
some close and now driftin' away.
He thought of the son he was missin' tonight
and lowered his head, then, to pray.
a young engineer looked at lights,
received from a satellite's cam'ra
recording the path of its flight.
to the current Commander-In-Chief,
"The cam'ra is so sharply focused,
it can show a man's face in relief.
The Earth seemed all lit up by night,
except for a fairly dark region
and one tiny pinpoint of light.
Let's see what your cam'ra can do."
The engineer did as was ordered,
a cowboy, at prayer, came in view.
"A prairie down in the Southwest,"
"Texas," affirmed the Director,
"most likely a drifter's my guess."
"I don't know how I can explain.
That cowboy, at prayer, is my father,
where we used to camp on that plain."
"It's more than a man could expect.
Between those two worlds of a cowboy and space,
the Lord found a way to connect.
as sparks and smoke rose in the night,
alone on a prairie for hundreds of miles,
from heaven, a pinpoint of light.
�2004, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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One stormy, Sunday afternoon
It carried on the wind I guess,
I reined my pony when I found
The music stopped as I stepped down,
So I crept to a window, slow
I heard an old piano play;
I never saw anuther soul;
Though years have passed, I can't explain
Whatever is the truth at last,
not many years ago,
while ridin' through a wooded glen
I heard a tune I knowed.
from where I could not see,
but still I headed toward the sound
beyond this grove of trees.
the ruins of this old church.
Abandoned now but still perhaps
the answer to my search.
so I stood there a bit
and sure enough it started up.
I knowed the name of it.
and looked inside a room.
I couldn't see a single soul
but I could hear that tune.
a smile was on my face.
I heard my mother's fav'rite hymn
"Sweet Spirit In This Place."
I searched as best I could.
It might have been an angel, Lord,
that visited those woods.
what happened on that day.
Did I just want to think it so
and no one really played?
my life is not the same.
A sweet, sweet spirit in that place
has healed a faith once lame.
�2004, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Seems strange that a man could go all of his life
The mornin' began like so many before:
But this time was diff'rent, at least to the man
The hay bales remained as they had all along,
In a way that no poet could ever explain
Dear Father in heaven, I must've been blind
Seems strange that a man could go all of his life
not seein' a thing that was there.
til a moment comes 'long, the first he has known
and it touches him deeply, I swear.
a routine now old had begun.
The cowboy would saddle then look to the cattle,
prepared for the same early run.
though the barn hadn't changed down the years.
But the sun shinin' through seemed, somehow, brand new,
and it brought the old cowhand near tears.
the saddle and tack in their place.
Yet the glow of the sun seemed a heaven-sent one,
and it filled the whole barn with its grace.
came a melody, tuneless, but true.
As he gazed on this scene, like a man in a dream,
a prayer seemed to come to him, too.
to pass without seein' so long.
You've always been there and me unaware.
How could an old fool been so wrong?
not seein' a thing that was there.
til a moment comes 'long, the first he has known
and it touches him deeply, I swear.
�2003, Rod Nichols
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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