Precious pilgrim weeping,
This is not your home.
These not your swamps and bogs,
This is not your loam.
In all their stunning beauty,
Cathedrals are not yours,
Yours not the hills and fields,
Yours not the azure shores.
Precious pilgrim groaning,
Do you see this cross?
To you belongs its pain and weight,
To you belongs its loss.
In the middle of the night
When there's nothing you can do,
In the dark of it hold on,
You're only passing through.
Precious pilgrim dying,
This faith must be enough:
Hold all these sorrows loosely,
Your journey ends in love.
So take heart, dear pilgrim,
Although the road seem hard
Your Father stands before you,
To wrap you in His arms.
Lauren D Dahl October, 2010
It is not necessary, but if you choose to use my poem, I would appreciate it if you let me know: firstname.lastname@example.org
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