| |
| Today I went to the woodshed |
| on the farm I used to call
home |
| I sat once more on the dusty old bench |
| and my thoughts began to roam |
| Back to the days of yesteryear when, |
| as a disobedient, willful lad |
| I used to go quite often |
| to the woodshed with my Dad. |
| |
| I took from a nail on the wall of the shed |
| a dusty old leather belt |
| And, wincing, remembered the sharp cracking sound |
| as each stinging blow I felt |
| I often pondered Dad's statement, |
| (though now I know it is true) |
| "Son, this is going to hurt me |
| as much as it hurts you." |
| |
| I think of the awful moments |
| that I squirmed so in that
place |
| And tried to look about |
| anywhere except into Dad's
face |
| As he towered there above me |
| and so sternly lectured away |
| Cutting even deeper than the lashes |
| were the things that he would
say. |
| |
| But the memories that linger |
| after others all have flown |
| Are the times he spent in the shed without me |
| -- all alone. |
| One day I peeked through the window |
| and saw Dad kneeling there |
| And I cursed as I heard him call my name |
| in agonizing prayer. |
| |
| I finally left that woodshed, |
| my mother and dad, my home |
| Rebellious, resentful, so very sure |
| I could make it on my own. |
| Away from the cracking of that whip, |
| the scolding and the tender
pleas. |
| But the years didn't fade the memory |
| of my Dad down on his knees. |
| |
| The journey back home |
| was now long over-due |
| Fear and excitement mingled |
| as the old farm came into view |
| Then, my heart began to quicken as, |
| along the path that lay ahead |
| I saw a lone and aged figure |
| disappear into the shed. |
| |
| What rejoicing! What reunion! What gladness |
| must have filled the air |
| As together, in that woodshed, |
| my Dad knelt with me in prayer |
| And now the joy that floods my soul |
| every time I say, |
| "I met Jesus in the woodshed |
| on that happy long-ago day". |
| |
| Mother and Dad have moved away |
| to their new Eternal Home |
| The farm-land now lies barren |
| and the house is falling down |
| But this I know, that old woodshed |
| will never fade away |
| As long as memory brings it back |
| on each and every Father's
Day. |
