Covenant and a Cradle

Verse 1

He keeps his Bible on the nightstand, pages worn to Ruth,

Stained glass on a Sunday, he’s a man who loves the truth.

Forty Julys on her front porch, coffee and a hymn,

Her laughter was a blessing, but the altar stayed dim.

They shared a mailbox, shared a mortgage, shared a quiet grace,

Said prayers before the supper, thanked the Lord for every place.

She’d say, “Love don’t need no paper,” he’d just squeeze her hand,

But he felt the pull of covenants the way a river knows the sand.

Chorus

He wanted a covenant and a cradle,

A ring under God and his name on her label.

A pew with their babies in Sunday shoes,

A “Mrs.” to stand when the preacher cues.

He wanted a page in the family Bible leaves,

Husband and father where the ink believes.

What he wasn’t getting was the blessing and the name,

The little voices and the right to call it plain.

Verse 2

Spare room by the hallway, turned into a sewing space,

No crayons on the drywall, no little boots to chase.

He watched the baptistry ripple, other fathers dried small eyes,

Whispered, “Lord, Thy will be done,” and let the moment pass him by.

On Father’s Day he mowed the lawn, the neighbor kids yelled, “Hey,”

He taught them how to bait a hook, sent them laughing on their way.

He loved her in the quiet nights, the kind that never tell,

But part of him was aching for a vow and wedding bell.

Chorus

He wanted a covenant and a cradle,

A ring under God and his name on her label.

A pew with their babies in Sunday shoes,

A “Mrs.” to stand when the preacher cues.

He wanted a porch light calling, “Daddy, come inside,”

A last name shared and a home baptized.

What he wasn’t getting was the cover of the Lord,

That simple word “husband” and the children he prayed for.

Bridge

She said her past made promises feel heavy as a stone,

He said, “God can lift it,” but he couldn’t lift it alone.

So he kept a gold band hidden in a drawer by the bed,

Like a quiet hallelujah he could never quite have said.

Verse 3

Now the hair is turning silver, choir sings Amazing Grace,

He still takes the back-left pew, leaves a space he cannot place.

At the hospital they asked him, “Sir, are you next of kin?”

He wrote “partner” on the line and felt the thunder roll within.

He kissed her sleeping forehead, prayed, “Forgive me if it’s wrong,

To want the vow I never had after forty harvest songs.”

Final Chorus

He wanted a covenant and a cradle,

An altar, a blessing, a name on the table.

Her hand in his with a pastor’s “by and by,”

A truth in the open you don’t have to qualify.

He wanted the word that could shelter them from rain,

A father’s old chair and a boy with his name.

What he wasn’t getting was the seal he’d laid before God,

The right to be her husband, and the children he still saw.

Outro

Some folks say love’s enough, and maybe that’s the truth,

But some men need a promise like a church needs a roof.

I am a global nomad/permanent traveler, or coddiwombler, if you will, and I move from place to place about every three months. I am currently in Peru and heading to Chile in a few days and from there, who knows?. I enjoy writing articles, stories, songs and poems about life, spirituality and my travels. You can find my songs linked below. Feel free to like and subscribe on any of the platforms. And if you are inspired to, tips are always appreciated, but not necessary. I just like sharing.

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