Wednesday, September 21, 2011

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.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

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.