Your Favorite Horse

By Ken Hanson

Pleasing you pleases me,
That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,
It’s been that way a very long time,
Ever since my world was still brand new.

Your favorite horse, that’s what you call me,
I work real hard to deserve that name,
It goes without saying you’re my favorite cowboy,
You can be sure that will always be the same.

Oh sure, when I was young I fought you real hard,
I thought I needed to be wild and free,
But you were determined to give me a chance,
You refused to give up on me.

You worked with me and calmed me down,
I finally began to see things your way,
We started to become quite a team,
One that continues to this very day.

I learned what you wanted from me,
You knew how to teach me with a gentle hand,
The skills I need for a cowboys job,
You whisper to me and I understand.

We’ve been together for many years now,
Perfecting the job we do as a team,
The other cowboys watch our moves,
A little envious it would seem.

Whether putting loose strays in a pen,
Or cutting steers from the herd,
It seems like I can feel your thoughts,
We do the job without a single word.

When we’re working our minds are one,
I know what you want before you do,
The touch of a spur, the flick of a rein,
A slight shift in the saddle by you.

I dodge and you lean into the turn,
Perfectly balanced like we’re connected,
Other cowboys hang on the top rail,
To watch the moves we have perfected.

I can feel your weight upon my back,
But it doesn’t slow me down at all,
At least until that fateful day,
I stepped in a hole and took a fall.

You weren’t hurt but I broke my leg,
I thought you were going to put me down,
I could see the worry in your eyes,
First time I’ve ever seen you frown.

The vet set my leg, put it in a cast,
Said it wasn’t that bad after all,
First time in my life that I can’t work,
All I can do is hobble around this stall,

You feed me every day to keep me alive,
Fresh water, oats, and sweet hay too,
But this isn’t what I call living,
I want to come back to work with you.

The job we did gave me purpose,
I miss it more than you’ll ever know,
Our teamwork means more than life itself,
I wish that I could tell you so.

The days go by, I’m slowly getting better,
But I see you working with a younger horse,
It breaks my heart but I understand,
A cowboys work must continue of course.

It’s been a year now, I’m out in the pasture,
I still can’t run no matter how hard I try,
Some days I get so lonely,
I just want to lay down and die.

Something happened today I didn’t expect,
You brought your grandson to the pasture to see me,
He was so little you carried him in your arms,
He must have been about two or three.

He was scared at first, but you talked to him,
He settled down and overcame his fear,
You held him up and I walked around slowly,
He held my mane tightly and laughed in my ear.

The fact that you trust me with this precious child,
Makes my heart swell with pride,
It’s been a long time since I felt useful,
It feels like it just might burst inside.

You bring him to ride me when he comes for a visit,
It gives me something to look forward to,
He’s my little cowboy and I’m his horsey,
You’re still my favorite but he might replace you.

That little cowboy has lassoed my heart,
That’s way better than being wild and free,
There are other horses he could choose to ride,
But he only wants to ride me.

The years have passed, he’s growing like a weed,
Big enough to ride me on his own now,
I can run, but not good enough to work,
That doesn’t matter anymore anyhow.

I have a new job now with my little cowboy,
That’s better than chasing steers of course,
Although we’ll never work together again,
I hope I’ll always be your favorite horse.

It’s The Reason We’re All Here ...

By Ken Hanson
Note: I was inspired to write this poem by the galvanized steel horse-trough the Palo Duro Cowboy Church in Canyon, Texas uses for baptisms.

Some are made of marble or granite,
Spare no expense, the best of the best,
Impressive to see, to say the least,
Strictly first class compared to the rest.

Some are made of sculptured concrete,
Functional and attractive, as well,
Probably surrounded by flowers or plants,
They serve their need, that you can tell.

Some are made of more modest materials,
I can see one from where I stand,
Made of galvanized metal, simple and plain,
It’s right over there next to the band.

Baptistries range from humble to majestic,
But they all do the very same thing,
It’s the final step to being born again,
It lets the people know your life has changed.

Whether marble, granite, concrete, or metal,
They have nothing whatsoever to do,
With the salvation you have chosen to receive,
That’s a relationship between Christ and you.

That metal tank that’s full of water,
Isn’t there for your horse,
It’s for the rest of us to witness your decision,
It’s a symbol of your salvation of course.

When you make the decision to follow Jesus,
The water washes away your sin,
You rise as Christ did on that third day,
Your life begins anew and you are born again.

That humble metal tank would look out of place,
In a gothic cathedral I fear,
But likewise that giant marble lap pool,
Wouldn’t fit in here.

A church will find what works for them,
No two congregations are the same,
Some might require that they have the best,
Others prefer something a little more tame.

That giant chunk of a granite mountain,
Rising up behind a large choir,
Complements the stained glass and organ pipes,
Something a wealthy congregation can admire.

The thousands of gallons in that big pool,
Can’t baptize any better than a horse trough can,
A couple of feet is more than enough,
For any woman, child, or man.

God doesn’t care how much water there is,
A few drops would wash away your sin,
It only matters what’s in your heart,
And where you’re going, not where you’ve been.

I’m sure Jesus wouldn’t mind,
Someone baptized in whatever could be found,
A water trough was surely in the manger of his birth,
After all, there were animals all around.

That simple little metal tank,
Is something in a cowboy’s world every day,
He knows it’s as good as an ocean,
At washing sin away.

When someone is baptized during a service,
The whole church will rejoice on that special day,
It lets the pastor know he’s done a good job,
Kinda like a little bonus in your pay.

When we see someone rise from the water,
We all praise God and cheer,
Helping someone become a new Christian,
Is the reason we’re all here.

Small Footprints In The Sand

By Ken Hanson

Our country changed September Eleven,
Right there for the whole world to see,
Our way of life had a wake up call,
It’ll never again be the way it used to be.

If those words sound familiar it’s because they began,
A poem I wrote years ago,
A tragic event in our beloved country,
A date that we all know.

Ten years later and we still hurt,
So many people we lost that day,
We grieve and move on as best we can,
But the pain will never go away.

Our innocence was lost early that morning,
We now know how vulnerable we are,
The terrorists got the upper hand that day,
Their worst attack on our soil by far.

When the towers fell and lives were lost,
We immediately became aware,
Just how important salvation is,
As the cries of the injured filled the air.

Some might say there’s plenty of time,
I’ll make that decision some other day,
How could they have possibly known,
American Flight Eleven was minutes away.

I prayed that everyone that died that day,
Knew The Lord and was saved long ago,
But some people are good procrastinators,
You just knew in your heart is wasn’t so.

When you’re a born again Christian,
In time, you’ll see those who are saved again,
But knowing some were inevitably lost,
I grieve even more for them.

It’s our job as servants of The Lord,
To help save as many as we can,
It cuts deep when we’re not in time,
And we lose even one woman or man.

About the only good thing that happened that day,
The towers were for commerce, children were spared,
Still, far too many lost one parent or both,
And were left alone and scared.

The most innocent victims did nothing wrong,
But their lives were shattered by evil men,
Terrorists don’t care who they kill,
They don’t consider it a sin.

When the dust finally settled, the dead were counted,
It became clear how many children were affected,
But New Yorkers stepped up and took care of their own,
Not a single child would be alone or neglected.

Aunts and uncles, grandparents and siblings,
All pitched in during this darkest of time,
Foster families made room in their lives,
Whatever it took so the children were fine.

Time goes by, memories fade,
You try to hold on to the people you knew,
But when you’re trying to get over the loss of a parent,
You can ask me and Dave, you never really do.

We’re all familiar with “Footprints In The Sand”,
Two sets, side by side, good days and bad ones too,
On our darkest days there’s only one set,
And The Lord said, “It was then that I carried you”.

For ten years now, small footprints in the sand,
So many children just trying to survive,
Some are them too young to understand,
Why their parents are not alive.

Long lines of footprints there in the sand,
Mostly two sets, quite often only one,
The burden these children live with,
Shouldn’t be carried by someone so young.

If I could speak to them, I would say,
Cling to The Father like the father you knew,
He will carry you as far as you need,
There is no end of his love for you.

When you are old enough to make the decision,
Give your soul to Jesus, live your life free of sin,
Honor the memory of your mother and father,
Be at peace knowing you will see them again.

To the procrastinators I would urge them,
Quit stalling, make your decision today,
It happened once, you never know,
When a plane might be headed your way.

Only God Knows ...

By Ken Hanson

If it was easy everyone would do it,
That’s what I’ve heard people say,
Several days hard riding in 100 degree weather,
Over 800 miles each way.

We do it right in the middle of summer,
When the sun looks for skin to be burned,
Those who do it earn the respect of their peers,
It’s a recognition that’s well earned.

Sturgis they call it, the town and the event,
A week long gathering half a million strong,
The biggest biker rally in the world,
A party lasting all week long.

A sleepy little farm town the rest of the year,
Sturgis wakes up when the bikes come to town,
On the north end of the Black Hills of South Dakota,
It’s a name that’s known the world around.

Every August for 71 years,
Bikers the world over point their machines this way,
Rides through the mountains, concerts and races,
Something to do every minute of every day.

Old friends get together and talk about the ride,
New friends every year camped right next to you,
A week of good times and good memories,
A pilgrimage every biker at least once should do.

People here come from all walks of life,
Normal ones and outlaws as well,
Most are good people like you and me,
Some just aren’t right, those you can tell.

Some bring their families, some bring their dogs,
Most bring a girlfriend or wife,
A few might come looking for trouble,
They bring tattoos and a knife.

Now tattoos don’t always mean trouble,
Good people have them too,
But as if it were meant to announce their intentions,
The outlaws always do.

They bring their own rules and disregard the law,
They only care about one of their own,
They think they’re better than everyone else,
Their contempt for society is well known.

The one percenters they like to be called,
The name came from a journalist long ago,
He said only one percent of bikers are outlaws,
They wear in on a patch so everyone will know.

Most of the time they don’t cause much trouble,
The large Police presence keeps them in line,
Still, you’ll do well to keep out of their way,
Leave them alone and you’ll be just fine.

There are dozens of outlaw biker gangs,
You can tell by the colors they wear,
And the leather and chains and the greasy smell,
And the tattoos and of course the long hair.

You might think the scary ones are all outlaws,
Look closer, you won’t believe what you’ve seen,
A small gold cross, a tattoo of Jesus,
A worn patch that says John 3:16.

Not all rough looking bikers are outlaws,
Many gave their soul to Jesus long ago,
They knew their lifestyle was a path of destruction,
They found the path to salvation was the way to go.

They changed their life to save their life,
Salvation is offered to everyone no matter how you look,
The patience of Jesus has no limits,
He’ll hold the door open no matter how long it took.

That scary looking biker is in a gang too,
God’s gang, he spreads the word till the truth is known,
He rides for The Son as well,
Though his beast is steel and chrome.

Hardcore Christians they’ve come to be called,
They outnumber the outlaws ten to one,
Their ministry is everywhere on the streets of Sturgis,
The world is a better place when their day is done.

It took a while for me to realize all of this,
It’s easy to judge others on the appearance of them,
But that’s not what we’re supposed to do,
That’s Gods job, leave it to him.

When you meet someone, forget about how they look,
Tell them Jesus offers a fresh start,
“Judge Not Least Ye Be Judged”
Only God knows what’s in their heart.

It isn't me ...

Poetry by Ken Hanson
Illustration by Steve Douglass

I’ve said this before, so you already know it,
It’s probably obvious to y’all,
There’s no use trying to hide the fact,
I’m not a real cowboy at all.

I ride a Harley, not a horse,
I can control something not smarter than me,
I tried riding horses when I was younger,
So far the attempts have been three.

Twice I tried riding my cousins Shetland Pony,
They put me on him, said everything would be fine,
Mean little sucker wanted me off of his back,
Both times, straight for the clothes line.

Once I rode an old nag at the stables,
In Palo Duro Canyon on a warm summer day,
We left the stable, plodding slowly down the trail,
We didn’t get very far away.

The canyon is beautiful, the weather was nice,
I thought, “Riding a horse is pretty sweet”,
Then, that nag turned around, headed back to it’s food,
That’s what they do when it time to eat.

So I got a motorcycle and forgot about horses,
It’s a sad fact, but you see,
If you’re looking for a real cowboy,
I’m sorry to say, It isn’t me.

I stand in front of this cowboy band,
Amazed at what they do,
They use the gift that God has given them,
To worship Him and entertain us too.

It takes a special talent to perform music,
Something not everyone can do,
I tried my hand at it when I was younger,
I was not one of the chosen few.

Dave’s played the bass since junior high,
Inspired when Paul McCartney appeared on TV,
Over forty years music’s been part of his life,
Serving The Lord for all too see.

We’re all fortunate to have music in our lives,
Whether our own or someone else we see,
If you’re looking for a real musician,
Once again, it isn’t me.

I did receive the gift of words,
Putting them together so the right ones rhyme,
Poems that are funny or inspirational,
Hopefully at least some of the time.

I use this talent to serve The Lord,
The right words can help someone make a fresh start,
I’ll help them find their way back on the path,
And help them ask Jesus into their heart.

I believe we have all been given a talent,
To serve The Lord and spread the word,
Salvation’s too important to leave any behind,
Everyone needs to have heard.

I’m the one who writes it all down,
Sometimes I think I’m smart enough,
To remember the words without the book,
It looks easy from there but up here it’s tough.

So sometimes I’ll leave the book at home,
Successful only one time out of three,
If you’re looking for someone with a perfect memory,
Sorry, It isn’t me.

What a surprise, I’m not perfect,
Guess what, neither are you,
We have all fallen short of the glory of God,
There’s nothing about that that we can do.

Sometimes it hurts to tell the truth,
It has to be told, that’s nothing new,
There’s only one person on Earth that was perfect,
And I can assure you, it isn’t me, or you.

But we don’t have to be, that’s the whole point,
Jesus died on the cross to save us from sin,
You can’t buy or earn your way into heaven,
You have to be invited in.

“No one comes to the father but through me,”
Jesus told us we have to do,
We have to admit we have sinned, then turn away,
And believe he died on the cross for me and you.

We have to give him control over our lives,
Getting us into Heaven meant everything to Him,
Jesus loved us enough to die for us,
Let’s find the lost ones and tell it to them.

So here I am, I can’t ride horses, I can’t play music,
I’m not a real cowboy, but you see,
If you’re looking for someone plum crazy about Jesus,
You’re in luck, It is me.

I Believe

By Ken Hanson

They ran in while others ran out,
That fateful day in 01,
Thousands died but many were saved,
Before the day was done.

First responders we call them,
Police, firemen, and paramedics too,
We also call them hero’s,
Their job is to save me and you.

They were where they were supposed to be,
The day the twin towers fell,
A lot more would have died had it not been for them,
They did their job very well.

Some say miracles happened that day,
As the cries of the injured filled the air,
They will say they were just doing their job,
But I believe it was God who put them there.

The earth moves, buildings fall,
And the ocean comes ashore,
Thousands trapped and dying in the rubble,
The water took thousands more.

Japan is devastated by natural disaster,
We watch the chaos on the evening news show,
How much worse can it possibly get,
All too soon, we know.

Without power, coolant pumps fail,
Reactors heat up out of control,
Man’s technology turns against him now,
Aided by Mother Natures role.

Buildings explode, steam escapes,
Radiation finds it’s way to the sea,
Human life hangs in the balance,
How much worse can it be?

We watch from our safety an ocean away,
The workers try to control their beast,
They face lethal levels of radiation,
We expect a few to run at least.

But none do, they head back in,
They sacrifice themselves to save other lives,
They willingly do what has to be done,
To save their town, their children, their wives.

Where do you find the courage to do that,
To put the safety of others ahead of your own,
I believe it to be a gift from God,
His love for us is well known.

A waiting room is a tense environment,
When a loved one is hurt or sick,
When their life depends on someone else,
It can test your faith pretty quick.

You pray that doctor or surgeon,
Has the best in training and a level head,
If something went terribly wrong,
They could end up worse or possibly dead.

Thankfully, that rarely happens,
Doctors are good at what they do,
The right people in the right place,
To save the life of me or you.

An experienced pilot in the left seat,
When the birds hit the plane that day,
A power off landing in the middle of the Hudson,
And everyone walks away.

A little baby falls down a well,
Miners trapped underground,
The right people on hand to get them out,
And everyone’s safe and sound.

Time and again we see on the news,
Someone saved in a dramatic way,
They were lucky a hero was there by chance,
Is what some people might say.

I don’t believe in fate or chance,
I don’t believe in coincidence at all,
I do believe it’s a part of God’s plan,
He’s the one in control after all.

That hero that saved that person that day,
Was right where they was supposed to be,
They didn’t just happen to be right there,
It’s part of God’s plan you see.

We know that God watches over us all,
He makes us strong enough to survive,
But if we’re not he will send in a hero,
Someone put there to keep us alive.

A nurse finds a fever at 3 am,
A cop sees a thief breaking in,
A marine sees a bully take an old lady’s purse,
You gotta feel sorry for him.

A doctor pulls up to a traffic accident,
A teacher sees a child fall behind,
It’s no coincidence they’re where they are,
And they’re competent, good, and kind.

God knows what will happen before it does,
It’s all a part of his immortal plan,
We have to trust in His divine judgment,
That’s not negotiable by mortal man.

God lets good people die every day,
That’s where your faith comes in,
When you are a born again Christian,
In time, you’ll see them again.

When you give your heart and soul to Jesus,
By His grace you are forgiven of your sin,
You shall live forever in the Kingdom of Heaven,
Your life begins anew and you are born again.

I believe that hero’s are Gods visible work,
I believe there are things we are meant to do,
I believe that God has a plan for us all,
That’s what I believe, now how about you?

This Thing Called Freedom

Photo by Steve Douglass

By Ken Hanson


Some take if for granted, this thing called freedom,
But that’s the next to last thing you should do.
Freedom isn’t free, it comes at a cost,
Paid for by people who came before you.

Our founding fathers and ancestors,
Paid for our freedom with their lives,
A way of life we all now enjoy,
Sons and daughters, husbands and wives.

In the long warm days, while summer is still new,
We gather again to celebrate and play,
Picnics, parades, fireworks and lemonade,
We honor those who gave us what we have today.

This precious thing called freedom, do we really understand,
The price that was paid long ago?
To us, it’s a day off from work,
Fun at the lake, take in a picture show.

To them, freedom meant their lives,
They gave everything to start something new,
Their sacrifice lives on today,
So much that was gained, bought by so few.

This fragile thing called freedom, are we really aware,
How easily it could go away?
A border over run, the people oppressed,
Examples on the news most every day.

Dictators cast their eyes on our freedom,
They would take it away if they could,
But we are a people who defend our flag,
We can, we do, and we should.

Those who would harm us rarely succeed,
There are people who stand in their way,
Our brave men and women in the US Armed Forces,
Stand vigil over our freedom every day.

They continue a service started long ago,
A time when our nation was still new,
Our freedom shall not be in peril,
We have something worth defending, and we do.

It usually isn’t easy, families split by deployment,
Hard on them, their children, especially their wives,
The price of freedom paid for willingly,
Their time, their families, sometimes their lives.

Next time you see a soldier, offer them your hand,
Tell them you appreciate what they do,
A sacrifice they made by choice,
To defend the flag, and me, and you.

This amazing thing called freedom, can we even comprehend,
How deeply it runs through our soul,
A fundamental way of life, demanding vigilance,
And sometimes extracting it’s toll.

Our very lives determined by freedom of choice,
A concept which is known to us all,
Placed there, I believe, by our creator,
Impacting all lives, big and small.

This thing called freedom is part of our salvation,
A choice you have to make,
Christ’s salvation is offered, not demanded,
Even though your everlasting soul is at stake.

You have the choice to follow Christ,
It’s a choice you alone will decide,
Freedom from sin demands a sacrifice,
You might have to swallow your pride.

There’s only one path to salvation,
“No one comes to the Father but through me”,
Christ’s words that will shape your life,
And determine if salvation you will see.

Salvation can’t be bartered for or earned,
It doesn’t matter what you’re worth,
It’s a gift given by the grace of God,
Without restriction to all people of Earth.

This thing called freedom means it’s all up to you,
Freedom of choice you must embrace,
Certain damnation or everlasting salvation,
Offered to you through God’s Grace.

So, have you forgotten or are you still wondering,
What’s the last thing you should do?
That would be to turn away from Christ,
Don’t do it, He’s still waiting for you.

The Alternative

By Ken Hanson

The other day I saw an old cowboy,
Limping on down the street,
Although he wasn’t moving too fast,
At least he was still on his feet.

He appeared to be busted up pretty good,
With a bent leg and a built up shoe,
He obviously wasn’t about to give up,
Real cowboys never do.

It’s a sight that’s not that uncommon,
I’ve seen it many times before,
Farming and ranching can hurt you bad,
It’s a lifestyle with dangers galore.

A mean bull can hurt you by swinging his head,
He can stomp you and break any bone,
The brave men who ride them compete for points,
Even though the dangers are known.

Even your best horse can step in a hole,
And roll over on top of you,
There’s about a million ways to hurt your hands,
And cost you a finger or two.

A tractor can roll over and pin you down,
And do all kinds of harm,
A combine header has no sympathy,
When it clogs up and cuts off your arm.

Irrigation pipe can touch a power line,
And kill you in the blink of an eye,
Even though vigilant, something can get you,
No matter how hard you try.

Dave has a T-shirt he bought at Sturgis,
It’s one of his favorites by far,
It says, “If you don’t limp you ain’t squat”,
I think he found it in a bar.

He wears it with pride though he doesn’t limp much,
Some days it don’t even show,
He does pretty good to be missing a leg,
Something not many people know.

I’ve seen some people who are hurt or sick,
And lucky to be alive today,
“Well it sure beats the alternative”.
Is something I’ve heard them say.

The alternative they’re talking about,
Of course, is being dead,
They seem real happy to be alive,
At least that’s what they said.

I’m sure that being crippled or sick.
Is better than the death you fear,
Especially if you’re afraid of the devil,
You’re better off to stay right here.

But when you’re a born again Christian,
Everything changes for you,
Nobody wants to check out too early,
But it’s not the end if you do.

That bull or horse or tractor or combine,
Doesn’t mean it’s the end,
The fear of death is taken away,
When Jesus is your friend.

When you give your soul to Jesus,
Your life begins anew,
There’s a brand new body, healthy and strong,
Waiting in Heaven for you.

That sounds to me like a better alternative,
Than living your life in pain,
Struggling along, cursing your luck,
And using God’s name in vain.

Our time here on Earth is very short,
Compared to eternity, but then,
If you’ve told your children about Jesus,
In time, you’ll see them again.

So live your life the best you can,
Trust the Lord like a friend,
Be at peace knowing the salvation He offers,
Means that death isn’t the end.

But you already know that, it’s the reason you’re here,
Let’s tell the rest of mankind.
When you leave this church, tell the story of salvation,
To everyone you can find.

Hipshot Understood

By Ken Hanson

It’s 4 AM on a Sunday morning,
I’m sitting in the middle of the living room floor.
There’s a big pile of rolled up newspapers,
Ready to go just inside the front door.

There’s not a lot of ways to make much money,
When you’re fourteen years old and you don’t have a car,
But a paper route’s a good way to learn life’s lessons,
Apply yourself and it’ll take you pretty far.

It teaches you how to deal with money,
And how to be responsible for what you do.
You’ll learn how to interact with adults,
And how to get money away from them too.

It teaches you how to be self sufficient,
I’m all alone and it’s cold outside,
But I’m pretty good at what I do,
I’m earning some money and a sense of pride.

One of the perks of delivering newspapers,
You’re the first one in town to read the comic strip.
I’ll start my day by having a laugh,
Before I head out on my neighborhood trip.

The characters in those comics were friends of mine,
They kept me company while I toiled away,
I’d share their adventures and laugh at their antics,
It’s a pretty good way to start your day.

Charlie Brown wanted to be a great pitcher,
Dick Tracy wanted to catch the bad guys,
Family Circle showed us a household in chaos,
The children were terrors but the parents were wise.

How could Dagwood eat those sandwiches,
They must’ve been two feet tall,
Dennis the Menace showed us size doesn’t matter,
You can get in big trouble even though you are small.

Beetle Bailey seemed to always get away,
With doing as little as he possibly could,
And the Vicar was always after Andy Capp,
To go to church like he knew he should.

Alley Oop and B C showed us what it was like,
Living way back in the cave man’s day,
But my favorite strip by far,
Was the one called Rick O’Shay.

Rick was a deputy sheriff,
In the town of Conniption a century ago,
There was this crazy cast of characters,
With unusual names, that’s why I loved it so.

There was Gaye Abandon, the dance hall owner,
Deuces Wylde, a gambler with a past,
Basil Metabolism was the town’s only doctor,
With a prescription for Whiskey that would take effect fast.

Mort Gage was the banker, he kept all the money,
Locked up behind a big steel door.
Cap’n Ball was the town gunsmith,
Also a veteran of the Civil War.

There was a young boy called Quyat Burp,
Who would give a kid a name like that?
Stan Lynde, the strips creator, that’s who,
Belle Starr was the town’s only cat.

Belle Starr lived with Hipshot Percussion,
He was my favorite character by far.
Cats choose who they want to be with,
It says a lot about who you are.

Hipshot was a reluctant gunslinger,
And best friend of Rick O’Shay,
He was always trying to escape his past,
Though his reputation followed him every day.

He was something of a loner,
He kept to himself to avoid gun-fights.
But young hotshots came around to call him out,
He was always in some ones sights.

Their strip was the first one I’d read each week,
To see what they had been up to,
Stan had quite the imagination,
It was hilarious what they would do.

About the same time each year, there was a reoccurring strip,
Same as the year before,
I liked the message, I’d patiently wait for it,
Folding papers there on the living room floor.

The scene was near the end of the year,
A heavy snow covered the ground.
The town was decorated in Christmas trimmings,
Not a soul on the streets could be found.

The whole town was in the little church,
The sound of Christmas carols could be heard,
But up on the hill, there was some movement,
One man, riding alone, without a word.

Hipshot knew his presence in the church,
Could invite trouble on this holy day.
He kept his distance to ensure their safety,
He could worship in his own unique way.

Even though alone, he could feel the presence,
Of this living God he worshiped, not one who was dead,
Christ died but arose to pay for our sins,
“Happy Birthday Boss” was all that he said.

Hipshot understood the path to salvation,
Is a relationship between Christ and you,
It’s not necessary to sing a hymn,
It’s not required to warm up a pew.

Hipshot knew, all you have to do,
Is admit your sin and then turn away,
Believe Jesus died and arose again,
Give him control, and you’re saved today.

That lonely gunfighter high on the hill,
Sitting on his horse in the snow,
Understood all about salvation,
It’s not what you’ve done, but who you know.

Christ’s salvation is offered to us all,
The choice is up to you,
With Jesus in your heart, you can’t help but sing,
And you’ll want to warm that pew.

Is it possible for a comic strip character,
To lead you to Christ, even if he could?
Why not, when it comes to salvation,
Even Hipshot understood.