Most days I feel like a Ranger.
A dusty rider, rusted blade on hip,
Working my way through the wilderness and through the villages.
I hide my face, hoping to simply pass through.
I serve my purpose, praying to fade behind the scenes.
I see people laughing, eating together, walking arm in arm.
I see the joy in their eyes and it sparks something inside.
But that's all it can do, is spark.
There's some kind of emptiness inside.
A dry and cracked land in the middle of fertile ground.
I know the potential is there.
I know that one day, it will grow a bountiful harvest.
I know that one day, a home will spring up on it.
Laughter will fill its halls.
Its tables will be full of delightful food.
So I ride on.
I wait for the rain.
I seek out other dusty barren lands like myself.
One day, the floodgates will open.
I will find my home.
That is the day, when I am a Ranger no more.
That is the day that instead of a sword, my hand holds another's.
When I pick up a hammer and build,
Instead of tightening the straps on the saddle and moving on.
That is when I find my home.
His pleasure is not in the strength of the horse,
nor his delight in the legs of the warrior;
the Lord delights in those who fear him,
who put their hope in his unfailing love.
Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
but we trust in the name of the LORD our God.