"This God-Forsaken Land", they call it,
As they gaze with pitying eye,"
Nothing here but sagebrush,
And a vast expanse of sky."
"We don’t know how you take it,"
Those city folks declare,
"And how do you make a living?
Or do you live on air?"
They wonder at the twinkle in our eye,
And the smiles we try to hide,
For in all this lonely windswept land,
They can see no cause for pride.
But we could tell them of our ranches,
Where great herds of cattle roam,
And of the flocks of bleating woolies,
That claim Montana as their own.
We could show them our oil wells,
That pour forth liquid gold,
And in those places they call “barren,”
There are deep, rich veins of coal.
They may not see our fertile ranches,
With their fields of hay and grain,
But nestled there among the hills,
We have them just the same.
This “Loneliness” they talk about,
To us is God’s own peace;
There’s so much of beauty all around,
That our thanks shall never cease.
Our streams are filled with rainbow trout,
We’ve antelope, elk and deer,
We’re a mile up nearer heaven,
And the air is pure and clear.
Our sunsets glow with color,
And in the pearly dawn of morn,
The pungent scent of sage drifts down,
On a breeze that’s mountain born.
We don’t know much of city life,
Or where they seek God there,
But we do know in Montana,
That we find Him everywhere.
So to them we’ll leave the cities,
Where the living is so grand,
And we’ll stay in Montana,
In our God-Beloved Land.
© Ashwin Sundar 2017