As I hike the dusty trail I find
Truth about the dirt has come to mind.
The lowly dust is praising God along
With the music of the pine trees’ song.

This humble dust has never once complained
Though trampled often and exposed to rain.
The same dirt is what I regularly sweep
And toss out the front door into a heap.

I wipe this from the fingers of a child
Ensuring that his bread is not defiled.
Yet dirt has never its Creator failed,
Nor required Jesus hand’s be nailed.

God preferred His ark to touch the dust
Over Uzzah, man of pride and lust.
Who am I to trample on the ground?
A wayward sheep that the Good Shepherd found!

I’m washed by blood that on the earth was spilled;
The accusations facing me were stilled.
Ironic that from dust a man was made.
The man then sinned; but clean has dust remained.

The dust, though pure, can only duty do,
While I, once cleansed, have love to give Him, too.
Oh that I’d not live just for duty’s sake,
But dearly love Him and Him ever praise.