For some, the names are carved in marble halls,
Or whispered with the weight of world renown,
The brilliant minds on whom a culture calls,
Who build their monuments in stone and town.
For me, it is a single, steady sound,
A name that roots the soul in holy ground.

The first and final echo in the room
Where every quiet prayer begins and ends,
A light that pierces through the thickest gloom,
On whom my frail foundation still depends.
He is the lens through which all others clear,
The influence that quiets every fear.

From Him, the patient courage of my mother
Learned how to bless the bread, to kneel, to bear;
Through Him,the steadfast presence of my father
Found strength to shoulder weight, to lead, to care.
Their love,a reflection of a greater source,
A tributary from that mighty course.

In friends, I see His grace in their compassion,
The humble hands that lift a heavy load.
In strangers, sometimes, glimpsing in faint fashion
The mercy on a long and winding road.
Each gentle spirit, truthful, kind, or brave,
Is but a ripple from the wave He gave.

The scholars and the saints of ages past
Who point with trembling finger to the light,
Their wisdom and their witness ever last
Because they anchored in His holy might.
They are the branches; He the living root,
The absolute,unshaken, bearing fruit.

So when they ask, “Who shaped your heart and hand?”
The names rise up like hymns, a cherished line.
But underneath them all,I understand,
One influence made every influence shine.
My North, my Truth, my never-failing Start,
The King who shaped this beat within my heart.