I'd gone over to the church with my guitar one evening to sit up near the dark pulpit and sing my prayers to God before retiring for the night. As I was in the midst of my musical devotions, I felt the inspiration for a new song rising in me. I fumbled on a chord progression and a melody began weaving its way through my mind. Suddenly, there was the image of a robed man riding through the desert on a great, white stallion. For a long-time songwriter, that's irresistible. I knew this song was to be a desert love song.
That seemed somewhat out of place in the midst of my prayer. I tried to ignor the image, with success. Finally, I told God my goodnights, and drove on home to sit down and get that song out of me. I knew I wouldn't sleep until I had done so. It ended up being a somewhat unusual love song, with the theme of two lovers who found each other against all odds in the sweltering and shivering cold of the desert by means of a perfumed tent. While the imagery was Arabian Nights exotic, there was enough of the story of my own wife's courage and sacrifice in our past relationship that I went in and sat on the edge of the bed and sang it, still not performance ready, for her. "Its really about us!" I told her.
But I learned the next morning that it was about more than I had thought. In my regular morning personal reading of the Bible, I happened upon the recipe for the perfumed annointing oil used in the sacred service of the sanctuary tent where God's people worshipped Him during the 40 years of desert wandering on their way to the Promised Land. (See Exodus 30:22-33) They had used that perfumed oil to annoint pretty much everything connected with the physical objects employed in their worship of God--the tent, the altars, and even the priests themselves. That original "Perfumed Tent" where God, the Great Lover, met with Israel, His Beloved, suddenly made sense to me. The intent behind what would have been a dry bit of Biblical history was plain. This was a love story between God and man.
As I went back to the lyrics to the song I'd written the night before when the imagery had been so impressed on my mind during my prayers, I saw even more than I had the first time. The white stallion is pictured as a part of the imagery of Jesus Second Coming, when He returns to earth for His people. (See Revelation 19:11-13) The three days in the "death zone" of the desert were comparable to Jesus three days in the heart of the earth after His crucifiction. Even the basic connection between the love between a man and a woman being a symbol of God's love for His people was in place. (See Ephesians 5:25-28)
The new song wanting to be written that had interupted my prayers had not been out of place after all. Curiously, a week later, as our Jamaician congregation met for the first time in their new church building in Salem, Massachusetts, my associate lay pastor conducted a service that involved using scented oil to consecrate the new building, its implements of worship, and also those who had gathered there to worship who wished to participate. I'd never seen that done before, but felt the spiritual significance of what occurred that day deeply as a result of what I had already experience in writing the lyric that follows...
Scarlet Tent of Finest Silk
Riding my white stallion through the desert,
Fingers tangled tightly in his mane.
My cloak trailing in the wind behind me,
Trying to remember my own name.
The sun's blinding eye high above me,
Dunes smoldering till they meet the sky.
My water bag holds memory of a swallow,
I swore I'd ride to meet her, or die.
Scarlet Tent of Finest Silk pitched 'neath oasis palm.
Scarlet Tent and dark-eyed beauty waiting till I come.
When night skies are ripe with jewels,
This old desert buries fools.
Scarlet Tent of Finest Silk lies where my jounrey's done.
I know I've only one chance in a thousand,
Another mirage vanishes in flame.
Then I catch the scent of rarest perfume,
Drawing me along the path it came.
There beyond these sand dunes I've been climbing,
Where the cool palm rises by the well--
I can see her Scarlet Tent at sunset.
She's waiting for the love I've come to tell.
Scarlet Tent of Finest Silk pitched 'neath oasis palm.
Scarlet Tent and dark-eyed beauty waiting till I come.
When night skies are ripe with jewels,
This old desert buries fools.
Scarlet Tent of Finest Silk lies where my jounrey's done.
For three days I was lost and wandering,
Crazed by the sun, I had lost my way.
Then she poured her jasmine perfume for me,
And its fragrance helped me find my way.
Her silken Scarlet Tent is stained and ruined now,
Rich jasmine bottles emspty on its floor.
But she lies in my arms 'neath bright stars,
We never will be parted anymore.
Scarlet Tent of Finest Silk pitched 'neath oasis palm.
Scarlet Tent and dark-eyed beauty waiting till I come.
When night skies are ripe with jewels,
This old desert buries fools.
Scarlet Tent of Finest Silk lies where my jounrey's done.
Scarlet tent now stained with fragrance--and my journey's done.
c2009 Skip Johnson
"Then the Lord said to Moses, 'Take the following fine spices: 500 shekels of liquid myrrh, half as much (that is, 250 shekels) of fragrant cinnamon, 250 shekels of fragrant cane, 500 shekels of cassia--all according to the sanctuary shekel--and a hin of olive oil. Make these into a sacred anointing oil, a fragrant blend, the work of a perfumer. It will be the sacred anoinging oil. Then use it to anoint the Tent of Meeting, the ark of the Testimony, the table and all its articles, the lampstand and its accessories, the altar of incense, the altar of burnt offering and all its utensils, and the basis with its stand.'" Exodus 30:22-28 NIV
Showing posts with label lyric. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lyric. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Old Man's Paradise (For My Father)
A year ago today, my Father died on the sofa at home, surrounded by his wife and we three grown children who had traveled from both coasts to be with him at the end. While I miss my Dad, I would not have wished an extention to his 83 years of earthly life. He was the most active and hard-working man I have ever known. I had to go out and build houses with him to get to know him growing up. I remember leaving in the gray of morning my sixth grade summer to pound shingles on the house we were building for a fellow teacher who worked at the girl's reform school where Dad was English teacher and librarian. By the summer I graduated from high school, I ran my own crew of eight building a barn and a house. No worries. I'd learned the carpentry trade from my Dad. I had six summers and school vacations of building skills under my leather carpenter's belt by that time.
Still, I did go down to the nearest pay phone and called Dad for advice the evening before we hoisted that huge beam to the peak of the second floor living room. He said, "Make sure you've got two ropes on it, Skip." I did. The monster beam winched into place without a hitch. If it had fallen, it wouldn't have stopped until it hit the slab 30 feet and two floors below. Now everything else he taught me can never be forgotten. It is hardwired into me, a part of who I am and how I see life.
The stroke that laid Dad low so quickly and dialated the pupil in one eye would have put him at the least in a wheel chair, and at most in a nursing home bed, perhaps for months, or even years. He would have hated that. Better he go as he did, after a sudden illness and surrounded by those who loved him. He had been working on the plumbing in the house a week before his death, and had won the "Lawn of the Town" award for his landscaping efforts the month before his passing. A quick death is the kiss of God.
I knew for years one of my generally annual visits to see him would be the last. All of his brothers and many of his friends had already gone. It was only a matter of time. He knew he was getting to be "the last leaf on the tree". I knew it, too. I mourned my father's passing in advance, in part with the lyric that follows. I will always believe that Dad held out until he knew I was on my way for a month long visit before letting go and slipping away. Curious how the longest vacation I have ever taken coincided with the death of the hardest working man I've ever known.
Things had gotten more and more difficult for him as the years bent his frame, as old work injuries, and new ones he regularly inflicted on himself in attempting to work as he had done in his youth, kept closing in. "I can only lift 50 pounds anymore," he would complain. "I can only work four hours at a stretch before I have to come in and lie down for a while." We'd read those letters and know all was well in the world. Dad was working, so the world must be spinning in its proper courses.
It was fortunate my Mother was a nurse. She kept Dad alive and patched up for those final dozen years as he broke a leg when a pile of lumber fell over on him off saw horses, then took the dive down the basement steps that battered his face and left his forhead with a huge black and blue patch, then tore his rotator cuff trying to use a large drill to pierce concrete, then fell off another roof or ladder. I did not fear for my father's safety, nor encourage him to retire to a rocking chair on the front porch of the final of many homes he had either built or remodeled. I knew him too well. He would have counted himself most blessed to die in a "work related accident". Such a thing would have been an entirely fitting end to a life marked by both a keen teacher's intellect, and the calloused hands of a carpenter and gardener. So my prayers weren't for Dad's safety so much as for my Mother's endurance. It isn't easy keeping a guy patched up who works like he's a third his actual age.
My father is gone now, but certainly not forgotten. He wrote me every week for many years, with his letters giving his musings on life, listing his intended projects around the yard and house, and telling me what a wonderful wife my Mom was to him. Sometimes he'd tell me, "Now I don't want to give you advice..." then go ahead and do it. Sometimes, it was helpful. Other times, he didn't know enough about the situation for the advice to work. But always I knew he loved me. Perhaps the most important words my father spoke to me was contained in one of those letters. He had seen the results of the ministry I was engaged in. He wrote, "Skip, God is still in the business of saving souls--and He is using you to do it."
I often wish I had written him back as faithfully, but perhaps that is a debt I owe now to my own sons some day when I'm older, and they are far away.
One of those weekly letters Dad sent apparently slipped behind the desk in the hallway. We located it, still unopened, several months after his passing. Sitting down to read it was rather like listening to a voice from beyond the grave. Dad wrote, "I can't hear anymore. Soon I'll leave this life. God willing, in heaven I'll get new ears." I'm sure God will give you new ears, Dad. That comes with your new body. One thing I know for certain: When God turns my Father loose in Paradise restored, He won't have any worries about the grounds not being tended. Dad will take care of that.
I post this in memory of a great and good though humble and largely unknown man. He was someone full of faith and wisdom, not perfect, certainly--but a grand old warrior who won and wore his scars well. I am proud to call him my father. If I become half the man my father was, I'll be doing well.
Old Man's Paradise
My hands shake.
Its hard to hold a pen to sign my name.
My ears ring.
It seems my vision changes day to day.
Can't see through my new glasses,
And these dentures hurt my gums.
I forget to take my pills,
When did I grow so dumb?
My back hurts.
I stumbled and fell again last week.
I can't sleep.
I don't hear a single word my family speaks.
When our preacher starts his sermon,
I know his lips still move--
Can't hear him, but I hear God
Beside me in the pew.
Sometimes my thoughts get tangled,
And tears run from my eyes.
I used to be so strong.
What did I do wrong,
That I should live this long
In an Old Man's Paradise?
I can't drive--
Except the riding mower here at home.
I've lost weight.
My daughter says I shouldn't stay alone.
My mind weaves dreams and memories
Of when I was a boy.
The sight of my great grandson
Is my greatest joy.
I still work.
I putter fixing screens and mow the lawn.
I still pray
Through endless silent nights that stretch so long.
My cane's beside my bed,
And my walker's by the door.
I've written it all down,
But whose this letter for?
Sometimes my thoughts get tangled,
And tears run from my eyes.
I used to be so strong.
What did I do wrong,
That I should live this long
In an Old Man's Paradise?
I used to stand so tall,
Now I hobble, or I crawl.
But the Good Lord hears my call
In this Old Man's Paradise.
Though life's not always nice,
Each day I thank God twice
For His sun that shines like ice
In this Old Man's Paradise.
In this Old Man's Paradise.
c2009 Skip Johnson
"Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, befoe the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, 'I find no pleasure in them'". Ecclesiastes 12:1 NIV
P.S. I was trying to figure out why all but one of the blogs on this new blog my dear wife, Judi, just set up for me were about old people. I think it is because Dad has been on my mind on this anniversary of his death.
Still, I did go down to the nearest pay phone and called Dad for advice the evening before we hoisted that huge beam to the peak of the second floor living room. He said, "Make sure you've got two ropes on it, Skip." I did. The monster beam winched into place without a hitch. If it had fallen, it wouldn't have stopped until it hit the slab 30 feet and two floors below. Now everything else he taught me can never be forgotten. It is hardwired into me, a part of who I am and how I see life.
The stroke that laid Dad low so quickly and dialated the pupil in one eye would have put him at the least in a wheel chair, and at most in a nursing home bed, perhaps for months, or even years. He would have hated that. Better he go as he did, after a sudden illness and surrounded by those who loved him. He had been working on the plumbing in the house a week before his death, and had won the "Lawn of the Town" award for his landscaping efforts the month before his passing. A quick death is the kiss of God.
I knew for years one of my generally annual visits to see him would be the last. All of his brothers and many of his friends had already gone. It was only a matter of time. He knew he was getting to be "the last leaf on the tree". I knew it, too. I mourned my father's passing in advance, in part with the lyric that follows. I will always believe that Dad held out until he knew I was on my way for a month long visit before letting go and slipping away. Curious how the longest vacation I have ever taken coincided with the death of the hardest working man I've ever known.
Things had gotten more and more difficult for him as the years bent his frame, as old work injuries, and new ones he regularly inflicted on himself in attempting to work as he had done in his youth, kept closing in. "I can only lift 50 pounds anymore," he would complain. "I can only work four hours at a stretch before I have to come in and lie down for a while." We'd read those letters and know all was well in the world. Dad was working, so the world must be spinning in its proper courses.
It was fortunate my Mother was a nurse. She kept Dad alive and patched up for those final dozen years as he broke a leg when a pile of lumber fell over on him off saw horses, then took the dive down the basement steps that battered his face and left his forhead with a huge black and blue patch, then tore his rotator cuff trying to use a large drill to pierce concrete, then fell off another roof or ladder. I did not fear for my father's safety, nor encourage him to retire to a rocking chair on the front porch of the final of many homes he had either built or remodeled. I knew him too well. He would have counted himself most blessed to die in a "work related accident". Such a thing would have been an entirely fitting end to a life marked by both a keen teacher's intellect, and the calloused hands of a carpenter and gardener. So my prayers weren't for Dad's safety so much as for my Mother's endurance. It isn't easy keeping a guy patched up who works like he's a third his actual age.
My father is gone now, but certainly not forgotten. He wrote me every week for many years, with his letters giving his musings on life, listing his intended projects around the yard and house, and telling me what a wonderful wife my Mom was to him. Sometimes he'd tell me, "Now I don't want to give you advice..." then go ahead and do it. Sometimes, it was helpful. Other times, he didn't know enough about the situation for the advice to work. But always I knew he loved me. Perhaps the most important words my father spoke to me was contained in one of those letters. He had seen the results of the ministry I was engaged in. He wrote, "Skip, God is still in the business of saving souls--and He is using you to do it."
I often wish I had written him back as faithfully, but perhaps that is a debt I owe now to my own sons some day when I'm older, and they are far away.
One of those weekly letters Dad sent apparently slipped behind the desk in the hallway. We located it, still unopened, several months after his passing. Sitting down to read it was rather like listening to a voice from beyond the grave. Dad wrote, "I can't hear anymore. Soon I'll leave this life. God willing, in heaven I'll get new ears." I'm sure God will give you new ears, Dad. That comes with your new body. One thing I know for certain: When God turns my Father loose in Paradise restored, He won't have any worries about the grounds not being tended. Dad will take care of that.
I post this in memory of a great and good though humble and largely unknown man. He was someone full of faith and wisdom, not perfect, certainly--but a grand old warrior who won and wore his scars well. I am proud to call him my father. If I become half the man my father was, I'll be doing well.
Old Man's Paradise
My hands shake.
Its hard to hold a pen to sign my name.
My ears ring.
It seems my vision changes day to day.
Can't see through my new glasses,
And these dentures hurt my gums.
I forget to take my pills,
When did I grow so dumb?
My back hurts.
I stumbled and fell again last week.
I can't sleep.
I don't hear a single word my family speaks.
When our preacher starts his sermon,
I know his lips still move--
Can't hear him, but I hear God
Beside me in the pew.
Sometimes my thoughts get tangled,
And tears run from my eyes.
I used to be so strong.
What did I do wrong,
That I should live this long
In an Old Man's Paradise?
I can't drive--
Except the riding mower here at home.
I've lost weight.
My daughter says I shouldn't stay alone.
My mind weaves dreams and memories
Of when I was a boy.
The sight of my great grandson
Is my greatest joy.
I still work.
I putter fixing screens and mow the lawn.
I still pray
Through endless silent nights that stretch so long.
My cane's beside my bed,
And my walker's by the door.
I've written it all down,
But whose this letter for?
Sometimes my thoughts get tangled,
And tears run from my eyes.
I used to be so strong.
What did I do wrong,
That I should live this long
In an Old Man's Paradise?
I used to stand so tall,
Now I hobble, or I crawl.
But the Good Lord hears my call
In this Old Man's Paradise.
Though life's not always nice,
Each day I thank God twice
For His sun that shines like ice
In this Old Man's Paradise.
In this Old Man's Paradise.
c2009 Skip Johnson
"Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, befoe the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, 'I find no pleasure in them'". Ecclesiastes 12:1 NIV
P.S. I was trying to figure out why all but one of the blogs on this new blog my dear wife, Judi, just set up for me were about old people. I think it is because Dad has been on my mind on this anniversary of his death.
Old Woman's Bucket
The following lyric is based on a true story told me by an old gentleman who came for screening to our "Take It to Heart" health van at Topsfield Fair in Massachusetts. When he learned of our efforts to help people adopt healthful habits which would promote long life, it jogged his memory concerning something he had heard as a boy growing up in the Appalachian Mountains. I asked him if I could quote him on the story he had told me. He said, "Why, yes. I wouldn't tell you a lie. This really happened. I knew the old woman myself when I was a boy."
I've set his bare outline of a story to meter, rhymn and music, and included God as the "Silent Partner" in the long conversation that follows.
Old Woman's Bucket
Old woman in her cabin in the Appalachian Mountains,
Far from the freeways and the bright city light.
She lived all alone miles beyond the nearest faucet,
And she prayed this prayer when she knelt at night...
"Lord, O Lord, why do I have to carry
My water so far in this bucket from the spring?
I'm a weary old woman, and the trail's so long.
Dear Lord, I keep listening, but You don't say a thing."
The long years passed as she prayed her prayer,
Each day was the same in the heat and the snow.
She trudged with her bucket to the spring down the mountain
Where the great oak grew and the clear water flowed.
"Lord, O Lord, why do I have to carry
My water so far in this bucket from the spring?
I'm a weary old woman, and the trail's so long.
Dear Lord, I keep listening, but You don't say a thing."
Wild flowers bloomed and autumn leaves swirled,
A long decade passed, and then a decade more.
She never got an answer to that prayer she prayed,
But she died last year...age ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR!
"Lord, O Lord, why do I have to carry
My water so far in this bucket from the spring?
I'm a weary old woman, and the trail's so long.
Dear Lord, I keep listening, but You don't say a thing."
Now what's your spring and what's your bucket?
What's the rugged trail that's so hard in your eyes?
The next time you kneel, thank the good Lord above.
Each trial He sends is a blessing in disguise.
"Lord, O Lord, why do I have to carry
My water so far in this bucket from the spring?
I'm worn and weary and the trail's so long.
Dear Lord, I keep listening, but You don't say a thing.
Lord, I keep listening, but You don't say a thing.
c2009 Skip Johnson
"Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will recieve the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him." James 1:12 NIV
I've set his bare outline of a story to meter, rhymn and music, and included God as the "Silent Partner" in the long conversation that follows.
Old Woman's Bucket
Old woman in her cabin in the Appalachian Mountains,
Far from the freeways and the bright city light.
She lived all alone miles beyond the nearest faucet,
And she prayed this prayer when she knelt at night...
"Lord, O Lord, why do I have to carry
My water so far in this bucket from the spring?
I'm a weary old woman, and the trail's so long.
Dear Lord, I keep listening, but You don't say a thing."
The long years passed as she prayed her prayer,
Each day was the same in the heat and the snow.
She trudged with her bucket to the spring down the mountain
Where the great oak grew and the clear water flowed.
"Lord, O Lord, why do I have to carry
My water so far in this bucket from the spring?
I'm a weary old woman, and the trail's so long.
Dear Lord, I keep listening, but You don't say a thing."
Wild flowers bloomed and autumn leaves swirled,
A long decade passed, and then a decade more.
She never got an answer to that prayer she prayed,
But she died last year...age ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR!
"Lord, O Lord, why do I have to carry
My water so far in this bucket from the spring?
I'm a weary old woman, and the trail's so long.
Dear Lord, I keep listening, but You don't say a thing."
Now what's your spring and what's your bucket?
What's the rugged trail that's so hard in your eyes?
The next time you kneel, thank the good Lord above.
Each trial He sends is a blessing in disguise.
"Lord, O Lord, why do I have to carry
My water so far in this bucket from the spring?
I'm worn and weary and the trail's so long.
Dear Lord, I keep listening, but You don't say a thing.
Lord, I keep listening, but You don't say a thing.
c2009 Skip Johnson
"Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will recieve the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him." James 1:12 NIV
Singing Hymns on the City Bus
Old Miss Thatcher, she knows God,
Talks to Him every day.
First thing she wakes each morning,
She kneels right down to pray.
Reads her Bible through each year,
Knows all her hymns by heart.
Never misses Preacher's preaching,
Always does her part.
So when Big Jake cursed "Jesus Christ!"
On our city bus,
Old Miss Thatcher's soul blazed up.
You knew there'd be a fuss.
She's singing hymns on the city bus,
Singing hymns on the city bus.
"Amazing Grace", in God we trust.
Singing hymns on the city bus.
The bus driver got annoyed,
He said she had to stop.
Old Miss Thatcher sang out strong,
So driver flagged a cop.
Police man ordered her to quit--
And Big Jake, he just grinned.
Then that whole bus burst into song,
To help Miss with her hymn!
When Big Jake cursed "Jesus Christ!"
On our city bus,
Old Miss Thatcher's soul caught flame,
You knew there'd be a fuss.
We're singing hymns on the city bus,
Singing hymns on the city bus.
"Amazing Grace", in God we trust.
Singing hymns on the city bus.
Policeman said, "I have no room
To lock folks up for talk."
Big Jake scowled and found the door,
I guess he'd rather walk.
Driver said, "We'll, okay.
Guess free speech is no crime.
Old Miss Thatcher, you come ride
On my bus anytime."
When Big Jake cursed "Jesus Christ!"
On our city bus,
Old Miss Thatcher's soul caught flame,
You knew there'd be a fuss.
We're singing hymns on the city bus,
Singing hymns on the city bus.
"Amazing Grace",in God we trust.
Singing hymns on the city bus.
"Jesus Loves Me", I know He must,
Singing hymns on the city bus.
"Old Rugged Cross" won't go to rust,
Singing hymns on the city bus.
Old Miss Thatcher, she knows God,
Talks to Him every day.
c2009 Skip Johnson
All rights reserved
"I felt I had to write and urge you to contend for the faith that was once for all entrusted to the saints." Jude 1:3 NIV
Talks to Him every day.
First thing she wakes each morning,
She kneels right down to pray.
Reads her Bible through each year,
Knows all her hymns by heart.
Never misses Preacher's preaching,
Always does her part.
So when Big Jake cursed "Jesus Christ!"
On our city bus,
Old Miss Thatcher's soul blazed up.
You knew there'd be a fuss.
She's singing hymns on the city bus,
Singing hymns on the city bus.
"Amazing Grace", in God we trust.
Singing hymns on the city bus.
The bus driver got annoyed,
He said she had to stop.
Old Miss Thatcher sang out strong,
So driver flagged a cop.
Police man ordered her to quit--
And Big Jake, he just grinned.
Then that whole bus burst into song,
To help Miss with her hymn!
When Big Jake cursed "Jesus Christ!"
On our city bus,
Old Miss Thatcher's soul caught flame,
You knew there'd be a fuss.
We're singing hymns on the city bus,
Singing hymns on the city bus.
"Amazing Grace", in God we trust.
Singing hymns on the city bus.
Policeman said, "I have no room
To lock folks up for talk."
Big Jake scowled and found the door,
I guess he'd rather walk.
Driver said, "We'll, okay.
Guess free speech is no crime.
Old Miss Thatcher, you come ride
On my bus anytime."
When Big Jake cursed "Jesus Christ!"
On our city bus,
Old Miss Thatcher's soul caught flame,
You knew there'd be a fuss.
We're singing hymns on the city bus,
Singing hymns on the city bus.
"Amazing Grace",in God we trust.
Singing hymns on the city bus.
"Jesus Loves Me", I know He must,
Singing hymns on the city bus.
"Old Rugged Cross" won't go to rust,
Singing hymns on the city bus.
Old Miss Thatcher, she knows God,
Talks to Him every day.
c2009 Skip Johnson
All rights reserved
"I felt I had to write and urge you to contend for the faith that was once for all entrusted to the saints." Jude 1:3 NIV
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