The Cowboy's Cathedral
As he lingers off his horse
At the end of day�s long ride�
The sunset is his stained glass
And there is no place to hide.
His old saddle is his pew
And the cattle herd�s his choir�
The creek�s murmurs are his hymns�
His scars all made by barbed wire.
Green mountains are his steeples�
A chuck wagon�s an alter�
Hard tack serves as his wafer
And his prayers seldom falter.
Yet saying grace seems mere words
That will make belief too small�
A clear night sky gives him faith
To put aside pride and gall.
There�s no word for religion
When he�s on the open plain�
It�s a thing he can�t describe,
Making sense of what�s insane.
The sage serves as his sermon
And wild rivers cleanse his sin,
As he seeks out his purpose
To be a man among men.
And though he now seems alone,
That�s not really how it is�
He is always with his Lord,
And the peace he has is His.
And so as he comes forward
From the pasture he did tend�
He has found his cathedral�
Leaving offerings on wind.
Then as he seeks acceptance
And the peacefulness it brings�
He soars above blue pastures,
Riding nestled on God�s wings.
�2007, Glen Enloe
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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