and he is inching towards glory
with only his own story on his back
he has patched up holes that opened
where his coverings have cracked
and some shoes were never meant for hiking, so
he left them far behind
there are things he needs
on journeys such as these
food and love and drink and warmth and comfort
and a bag that’s small enough
to carry all the failures and the idols
that he’s picked up on the way
there are some days
he only moves
an inch or two
this is the pace of glory here in exile
Pádraig Ó
Tuama
_____________________________________
I inch through life
eternally displaced and homesick
seeking
I am not sure I belong here
it does not feel like home
and I, clinging to the vestiges of hope
like tattered clothes
wandering
an immigrant, a soul in exile
I need to travel light
it is time to abandon all that burdens
that weighs me down
and drains my sparse resources
my bag is small
and cannot bear the weight
of too much hate
and fear
I need to shed these foul miseries
leaving them, abandoned along the way
as I trod, trod
through each day, through this life
this journey through the wasteland
there are many paths through this
great dryness
where I struggle and thirst
and inch
lost and worn
I will never make it through
to that place of promise
without the One who makes a way
filling valleys and leveling mountains
filling my battered cup
with just enough water to keep me traveling
inching toward glory
a refugee
trudging with so many other
exiles
all of us needing Sacred
needing each other
sharing our meager gifts
of love, hope, compassion, and joy
trying to find our way home
walking each other
home
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