Ladders hanging on buildings;                                                      Riding on the tractor with the woodwagon in  tow;

Circular contrails of grass from the mower;                                 Stalking a deer in the brush;

Apple blossoms opening to the sweet sounds of                         Picking bundles of ‘Lady Slippers’ from the

the Honey Bees;                                                                        shade near the spring;

Oak trees with outstretched arms to swing from;                        Jumping into freshly stored hay at the top of the barn;

And coming up the drive, the rail fences made                            Lying in the field dreaming of a life of charm;

from cedar wood;                                                                      My home on this world, this is the farm.

This is the farm, the place of my childhood.                         


                                                                            Riding horses or motorcycles at my pleasure I did,

                                                       Throwing rocks at the cows, then from Grandpa I hid;

                                    Catching chickens that ran from the shed, catching a clothes line that knocked me on my head;

                                        Chasing the quail with a dog at my heels, seeing my brother spanked, knowing how it feels;

                                                   Remembering these things of the place safe from harm,

                                                              Demonstrates my life, my life on the farm.  

But as the clock ticks,                                                               And the loves in our lives seem to turn with the tides.

So the years follow one after another;                                        The world opens our eyes as innocence sinks

Little boys grow into manhood, and little girls                             beneath the waves for the last time;

become women.                                                                        No more sanctity of youth,

Dreams become chances lost,                                                   No more pleasures of the young,

While hopes fade into disappointments                                      Just days of worry and alarm,

Things we wanted are lost to current bill                                    For gone are the days and glory years on the farm.


Will joy and comfort ever visit me again?

Are the happy moments of my boyhood only flashes before dying eyes?

I cry for those times again;

Tears seek out a path down my cheeks;

Won’t someone pick me up and show me love?

Won’t somebody open their heart to me and put me in their arms?

Can’t anyone give me a place that was like my place,

The place so unlike any of the other farms?  

I hear there is a place I should see,                                            Is there peace there?  Oh, yes!  

It’s talked about from a man,                                                     Is there love there?  Oh, yes!  

A Man from Galilee.                                                                  Is there joy there?  Oh, yes!  

It’s promised to be everything I need,                                         Then take me to this place I should see,

This place told by the Man from Galilee.                                     This place talked about by the Man from Galilee.    


Only through Him is access allowed,                                          I rest in this place He has made for me,

By no other path, however troddened or plowed;                                           Created through dying,

Just reach out and take His hand,                                               He set me free;  

Let Him guide you to the New Land.                                         Jesus Christ is the Man from Galilee,  

                                                                                                And He gives me peace for eternity.

                                                                                                I linger inside this sweet abode,

                                                                                               Knowing Jesus paid for the sins I owed;


He is my Savior from this world’s harm,

And gives a home far better than any ol’ farm.


The Farm by Ronhales                                                                                                                                     Psalm 26:8

View this writing on designer paper.        Home