The Cowboy's Cathedral

As he lingers off his horse At the end of day’s long ride— The sunset is his stained glass And there is no place to hide. His old saddle is his pew And the cattle herd’s his choir— The creek’s murmurs are his hymns— His scars all made by barbed wire. Green mountains are his steeples— A chuck wagon’s an alter— Hard tack serves as his wafer And his prayers seldom falter. Yet saying grace seems mere words That will make belief too small— A clear night sky gives him faith To put aside pride and gall. There’s no word for religion When he’s on the open plain— It’s a thing he can’t describe, Making sense of what’s insane. Thunder’s his organ music— Stampeding them to slaughter— His prayers come when he needs them— His blood of Christ is water. The sage serves as his sermon And wild rivers cleanse his sin, As he seeks out his purpose To be a man among men. And though he now seems alone, That’s not really how it is— He is always with his Lord, And the peace he has is His. And so as he comes forward From the pasture he did tend— He has found his cathedral— Leaving offerings on wind. Then as he seeks acceptance And the peacefulness it brings— He soars above blue pastures, Riding nestled on God’s wings.