It Was In God's Hands


Rubbing the lingering sleep from his eyes as he awoke, the acrid smell of the smoke; the vast lonely mountains; the gentle flow of the brook, all combined to make the old cowboy realize that from the moment of his conception, to the not so distant time of his pending death, and for all of the moments in between he had spend here on earth, it had always been in God's hands.


For all of his efforts as he had struggled with life; for each time he had fallen and struggled to pull himself up by his boot straps; even those times when he thought for a fleeting moment he had succeeded and his spirits sailed only to be dashed on the rocks or reality below, it was always in God's hands.


His lament was not for his condition today, but for all those lost chances; to have never known a true and lasting love; all of the times he had cursed his fate, with his anger directed at "the big man up above", never once realizing it was always in God's hands.


Now on this, his final ride, he had come to both realize and finally accept that his life on this earth had always been in God's loving hands. While his temper and his hard head had cost him such pain through the years, God always showed the beauty all around. The old cowboy had been blessed with rainbows after all the rains, birds in the mornings singing their songs, and a strong mare beneath him, and with a faithful dog for a companion along for the ride.


In God there was no anger, no pain, only the constant and abiding love He held out to man.

© 2004-2010 David L. Griffith

Mail To The Cowboy

          

 

"There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval."

Text © by PalletMaster's Workshop®.
Graphics by Martyca

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