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Swimming in the Valley of Baca

 
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Swimming in the Valley of Baca - 7/31/2008 8:56:18 PM   
Mark0

 

Posts: 17
Joined: 11/16/2005
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"Blessed is the man whose strength is in you, in whose heart are the ways of them, who passing through the valley of Baca, make it a well; the rain also fills the pools. They go from strength to strength—every one of them in Zion appears before God." Psalm 84:5-7

As I raced along fast lanes in life, on a drive one sunny day,
I wound up stuck in Baca Valley, very much to my dismay.

I know I hadn’t planned this trip, a Mustang ride to hottest hell
But as vistas passed before my eyes, the change I couldn’t tell.

As greener valleys turned to brown; desert’s hard scorched earth
Revealed my utter lack of faith, parched by prayer-less dearth.

The wheels came off my half-baked plans, silenced all my dreams
Baca fanned its flaming breath and torched my sunny schemes.

Why did I venture far from home, whatever had I hoped to find?
Yet this trip was God ordained, for here I found a truth in kind.

Stalled out in trackless arid lands, my Mustang had slowed down.
Forced to own up to my wrong, tears were falling to the ground.

I found a new beginning there, parched and cracked in desert sun.
Baca conquered me that day; when teary streams began to run.

Repentance grew, tears welled up; rivers in the wasteland sprang.
Baca’s sky grew dark with rain as my heart’s cry for mercy sang.

Baca’s rain brought joy and peace as I knelt in deep brown mud.
Prideful sin was washed away in repentance’s sweet wet flood.

This desert’s secret gardens blossom, watered by a little prayer
My heart’s renewal was the change that bore a new life there.

I’m swimming now in wasteland where no sane man would roam.
Freedom brought it, now I love it; Baca is my home sweet home.

So if you veer off the King’s Highway, from running like a madman
And your dreams are swept away, lost in swirling shifting sand

Remember me at home here, and I’ll show you how to dig a well
You can prosper in a land most folks would say is burning hell.

When you’re weeping like a willow, God hears your mournful sighs
Baca’s gentle streams will lift you; change will make a river rise.
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