He Cried
(Inspired by just looking around at the world as it was then and still is today.)
Copyright ©1984

I had a dream last night
that tore my heart in two.
I saw a man in tears;
He looked so sad and blue.

He knelt as if He were in prayer;
His head bowed down in sorrow.
As He stood, I heard Him say,
"I'll try again tomorrow."

When He walked away so slow,
His shoulders stooped in grief,
He said, "Yes, I'll try again
to renew My children's belief."

I tried to see   His face,
this poor downtrodden man.
But suddenly  all I saw
was a deeply nail-scarred hand.

I called to Him, "O, my Lord,
please do not turn away.
I know we've let you down,
we often fail to pray."

He looked down upon this earth,
then sadly said to me,
"I have tried so very hard.
Why can't My children see?"

"All the wars and discontent,
the ones who've cheated and lied..."
Then the saddest scene of all,
I watched my Lord as He cried.

by:  Mary Walker-Butler

I Heard My Daddy Pray
(In honor of my wonderful father-in-law, JT Butler, who could, without a doubt, say the sweetest, and most heart touching  prayer.)
Copyright ©1982

When I heard my daddy pray,
I could tell it was from his heart.
"Our Father", from his lips,
was how his prayer would start.

He prayed down deep within his soul.
The words a sweet refrain.
He'd pray for worldly peace
and no more suffering and pain.

He'd want God to know he was thankful
for his family's tender love.
And for the many blessings
he was sent from Heaven above.

He'd talk to our Dear Jesus,
the Son of God on high.
who suffered untold pain
as he hung on a cross to die.

Daddy fought in foreign wars
to keep our country free.
Just as Jesus died for us,
my Daddy would have died for me.

He never faltered with the words,
nor ask for wordly gain.
The words came so natural for him,
for he never prayed in vain.

I know he's talking to God now,
but it's face to face today.
Just seems like only this morning,
that I heard my Daddy pray.

by:  Mary Walker-Butler

Lines Across His Brow
(Inspired by the elderly gentlemen seen sitting in parks and in malls watching people.  I saw some speak to people with a smile but got no response from those spoken to.  It is sad, and  we will all be there one day.)
Copyright ©1982

Times and seasons of yester-year,
spiraling on-ward, never ceasing.
Hours are swift, moments faster.
Faces of age ever increasing.

Slow in movement, shoulders stooped,
lines of wisdom across his brow.
Respected and honored in the past,
cast aside like a shadow now.

A victim of time, no fault his own.
The knowledge within his heart
he's learned from life and death.
These lessons he would impart.

No one takes the time to talk to him.
Nobody seems to care.
This man is in the way now,
he's lame, with snow white hair.

But, oh, the advice he could give us.
The tales that he could share.
If only we would turn to him,
our burdens he'd help us bare.

On the ones who have turned their backs,
time will take its toll.
For advice we'll be asked,
by not one living soul.

Full of wisdom we will be,
stooped shoulders, movements slow.
Lines furrowed across our brow,
and hair as white as snow.

by:  Mary Walker-Butler

Fields Of Earth
(Dad Butler, (JT), loved to work the soil and farm.  After he retired from the Army, that is just what he did, farm.  I can still see him putting his work boots on to go plow or feed the animals.)
Copyright ©1984

He was quiet, humble, and kind,
ne'er a cross word I heard him say.
He was strong in spirit and mind,
through the darkness of night, light of day.

His head bowed in daily prayer;
he had hands that proved his worth.
Loved ones knew he cared.
He worked hard in fields of earth.

His past was full of stories
of service with his fellow man.
They fought for rights and glories.
For our country they took their stand.

In a very short time he had my love.
He made an impression upon my heart.
But he was called to God's fields above;
from earth's fields he had to part.

Don't you know I still think of him
when I see a field of green.
I wonder if he helped to till them,
with God's angles to over-see.

by:  Mary Walker-Butler