Jeff Leslie
Lyrics and Poetry
pg. 21

WHEN I CATCH YOUR BREATH-WILD WEST WODEO-
WHERE SCARLET TURNS TO SNOW (1)-WHERE SCARLET TURNS TO SNOW (2)
WIPPORWILL SONG-WISHING WELL-WORRIES FOR WINGS



"WHEN I CATCH YOUR BREATH"
by  Jeff Leslie    1987

When I'm weak and heavy laden
From the weight of every day
I will slip into my heart and close the door
You are always in there waiting
When I call upon your Name
And without a word my peace will be restored

When I catch Your breath, Your Spirit comes to me
When I catch Your breath, Your Spirit comforts me
And Your Spirit brings me peace
And then a part of You becomes a part of me

Now the peace that You have given
Is a portion of your grace
Hidden like a treasure in my heart
When I'm weak and heavy laden
I will seek Your holy face
Then the thought of You will take me where You are

When I catch Your breath, Your Spirit comes to me
When I catch Your breath, Your Spirit comforts me
And Your Spirit brings me peace
And then a part of You becomes a part of me

Spirit of the living God fall fresh on me
Spirit of the living God fall

When I catch Your breath, Your Spirit comes to me
When I catch Your breath, Your Spirit comforts me
And Your Spirit brings me peace
And then a part of You becomes a part of me

It’s such a mystery
How Jesus comforts me



“WHERE SCARLET TURNS TO SNOW”
by Jeff Leslie  4/9/2009

Down the hill like Jack again
I fell while fetching water
Covered with a scarlet stain
I wonder why I bother

But something on that hill so high
That I can barely see
Draws my soul up to the sky
As if to set me free

So up the hill I go
For in my heart I know
That there’s a place so full of grace
That scarlet turns to snow

With dauntless faith I take my pail
In pure determination
And upward I refuse to fail
To reach my destination

There’s something in the mountain snow
That makes the water sweeter
Than that which through the valley flows
And makes me long to drink it

So up the hill I go
For in my heart I know
That there’s a place so full of grace
That scarlet turns to snow

Fin’ly at the peak of frost
I see through tear filled eyes
The footing of a crimson cross
Where Jesus gave His life

So up the hill I go
For in my heart I know
That there’s a place so full of grace
That scarlet turns to snow



“WHERE SCARLET TURNS TO SNOW”
by Jeff Leslie  4/12/2009 (Easter)

When I'm burdened by the weight of chains
That bind my soul to sin
And I'm covered with a scarlet stain
That blinds me from within

Then something on a hill so high
That I can barely see
Will draw my soul up to the sky
To set this captive free

So up the hill I go
For in my heart I know
That there’s a place so full of grace
That scarlet turns to snow

As closer to the peak I come
A light is breaking through
And warmer than the morning sun
My heart feels born anew

Then winds that blow around the snow
Cause scarlet eyes to see
The chains that bound me down below
Are gone and I am free

So up the hill I go
For in my heart I know
That there’s a place so full of grace
That scarlet turns to snow

Then fin’ly at the peak of frost
I see through perfect eyes
The footing of a crimson cross
Where Jesus gave His life

Now joy has filled my soul
For in my heart I know
I've found the place so full of grace
That scarlet turns to snow



“WILD WEST WODEO”
by Jeff Leslie  5/10/07

My neighbor owns a ranch house that sits just outside the city.
Wild ponies gallop freely on the property he has.
I seldom ever see him, though.  He travels for a living
In a black and rusty pick up with a cracked and dusty dash.

His little boy is Bobby who's still practicing his diction.
His daddy and his mommy take him everywhere they go.
One day I stopped to ask him where his father goes when working.
He said, "My dad's the 'champin' of the Wild West Wodeo."

The method  is peculiar for the little one's protection.
His car seat is a saddle.  His restraining belt's a rope.
The pickup's shocks are gone so Bobby's bottom's always bouncing,
But all the while he's laughing like each bump's a tickler's poke.

They never take the highways in their treks across the country.
Instead it's on the byways and the alleys lesser known.
They say the air is sweeter on the rough and rugged two ways.
They'd rather watch the scen'ry from abandoned bumpy roads.

I picture that old pickup cruising down the crooked pavement.
Young Bobby's hair is flopping as he tosses to and fro.
With one hand on the rope he hopes to be just like his hero.
His daddy who's the “ 'champin' of the Wild West Wodeo.”

Their destiny is Dallas and the fair where he'll be riding.
They barely beat the deadline in the nick of time to go.
His daddy struts around the round arena to the bronco;
While Bobby and his mommy take their places down the row.

A reputation followed this old bronc around the circuit.
His owner named him Dynamite just waiting to explode.
There's never been a cowboy that could ride him for the limit.
It only took a second for each rider to be thrown.

But Bobby wasn't worried as he watched his daddy mount him.
He'd seen him ride a hundred other broncs like that before.
If anybody asked him why he had such self assurance,
He'd say, "My dad's the 'champin' of the Wild West Wodeo."

Then suddenly a hush fell on the crowd at the arena.
The bronc peered at his rider through his black and evil eyes.
And when the champion nodded and the gate was swiftly opened
The Dynamite exploded and they both began to fly.

While twirling like a twister kicking dust in each direction
The bronco tried his best to buck the cowboy off his back.
But riding with a mighty grip, refusing to be loosened,
Like Bobby in his pickup, the old buckaroo just laughed.

The judges and the scoreboard had been counting down the seconds
And hearing the alarm the quiet victor whispered, “Now.”
He then released his hold and hit the dirt, feet firmly planted
And turning to the bronc he watched him tip his mane and bow.

Then instantly the crowd arose and thundered their ovation
Responding to the lightening of the champ's triumphant ride.
He left the coliseum on the shoulders of supporters,
And winked at his young Bobby who just watched him go with pride.

Outside of the arena countless camera bulbs were popping.
The champion held his trophy high so every eye could see.
And all of the reporters asked the same familiar question:
"How is it that you rode the dreaded Dynamite with ease?"

He said, "When I was just a whipper-snapper, barely walking,
My daddy put a saddle in his pickup just for me.
He'd drive around the roughest roads he found throughout the county,
And I would ride the saddle every day from dawn to three.

"As I was growing older he would make me break the ponies.
He wanted me to be the very best to mount a colt.
So by the time I entered my first riding competition,
Then I was more than ready.  There was no way I'd be thrown.

"Yep.  That's the way my dad learned how to ride the broncs before me.
And just like him, I use that truck to teach my Bobby, too.
So when the time has finally come for me to pass the trophy,
Then he can be the one to carry our tradition through."

And this peculiar method passed throughout the generations.
They ride the same black pickup with the saddle and the rope.
And every single son the father raises in this fashion
Becomes the riding “ 'champin' of the Wild West Wodeo!”

“WIPPORWILL SONG”
by Jeff Leslie  2/25/98

A wipporwill, A wipporwill,
God only knows why wippors will
As he sits blithely in his tree
With all the other birds and bees
Perhaps it is determined
By the worm that is a squirmin’
By the worm that is a squirmin’
Trapped within the birdy's beak.

If there exists a fish that swims
It must have feathers on its fin?
If not, explain how else or why
A finny flying fish can fly.
Perhaps it is determined
By the worm that is a squirmin’
By the worm that is a squirmin’
In it’s belly, by the by.

I guess I’ll take it up with our Creator
And ask Him what was on His great big mind
For a fish to sometimes frolic in the water
And other times to fly across the sky

Oh, hey there busy, busy bee,
A buzzin’ 'round that great big tree
Since you can neither hum nor sing
Is that the reason why you sting?
I think it would be funny
If the cause was all the honey
If the cause was all the honey
That is sticking to your wing?

I guess I’ll take it up with our Creator
And ask Him kindly how He could have known
That a bee could sting although his wings are sticky
As he counts his combs of honey with the drones.