Story Behind The Song

I love trains and old hymns. Both arouse expectation. My grandparents used to live a few blocks from the Reading's alphabet line. As a kid I would spend summer afternoons on their front porch waiting for that distant air horn carried on the western wind; the herald of a freight from Hagerstown approaching a grade crossing some miles away. If I ran quickly, I could reach the old iron bridge before the engines got there. I'd arrive at the bridge winded, tuning out traffic noise, waiting for the harmony of diesels. At first all was quiet. Then the rails lit up as a headlight came around the bend. Still no sound. Then the faint burbling and throbbing, growing slowly louder and louder. How many units on the head of this one? Three? Four? I stood as close as I dared to the open decking where the bridge once shared its span with a trolley line. I could feel the rumble now. The engineer returned my wave. Tons of powerful machinery thundered beneath as I felt the hot blast of cooling fans. Terror and Glory in one moment, yet kept safely on the rails by spikes in wood. Then the parade of hoppers and boxcars from distant lands played cadences on the rails. They still used a caboose back then. If I was patient, I might catch another wave. How much greater the terror and glory when the fount of every blessing comes. The old hymns reassure me. I'm kept safe by spikes in wood. The gleam is on the rail.