I scribble and scrawl, I doodle and write,
Through morning and noon and far into the night.
Joy doesn’t come from a rhyme that just zings.
It comes when I’m sure I’ve done heavenly things.
I tap on my keyboard with rhythm and beat,
Each letter with prayer at my Savior’s feet.
It’s not for cleverness, wittiness, or flair—
But truth that I type with deliberate care.
The peace that I feel—it’s not shallow or small.
It’s the stillness of knowing I gave him my all.
It lingers and lasts far beyond any prize,
Like sunlight that stretches across morning skies.
I’ll write from my heart, with Heaven in sight,
And pray that my words bring my Father delight.
For when I write true, and my motives are pure,
The joy that I find is everlasting, for sure.
