There is a place called Home. It is where my Mother is from, my Father and all of my Brothers and Sisters, my Aunts and Uncles, Cousins, Grandparents…and friends. It is where my Children are from and where I will spend eternity with the love of my life. It is where we all live in spirit, though most of us never seem to be there. It is a wonderful place and everyone I ever knew and ever will, lives there…at Home.
We walk along an old dirt road, for how long no one knows,
Referred to as the Journey Home from whence the spirit goes.
We sometimes walk together and quite often far apart,
Though we have our different paths ahead we share a single heart.
The ones that walk the closest seem to never hear us call,
And those we loved the most, we watch as one by one they fall.
At times the heart seems weaker and we carry it alone,
Crawling on our knees, we beg the Journey, take us Home.
Then all at once the light comes shining brightly in our eyes,
The storm has passed, the clouds recede revealing clear blue skies.
Though never short of troubled times at hand along the way,
Behind each darkened hour lies a hundred brighter days.
And sometimes, though, our heavy heart and mind collide again,
Forgetting that we’re going home, too fixed on where we’ve been.
Quite often it’s the only thing we care about at all,
It takes the Sacred Harps of Home to sound the wake up call.
The pain, almost too much to bear, the blisters on our feet,
We focus on our loved ones, fallen past, again, we’ll meet.
Still sometimes we will question faith with doubt that Home exists.
And even if it does we wonder why our pain’s dismissed.
Yet, despite compelling questions and the fear of our own wraith,
An acceptable conclusion is obtained by keeping faith.
That old dirt road we walk along, revealing as it goes,
A metaphor for life we call our blessed Journey Home.
© 2012 Ken Darville . All Rights Reserved
Reblogged from Citizen Plain