Over the mountain climbed,
That Pilgrim,
Devout and humbled,
His ankles flexed against the,
Shifting rock and moss,
As the pack on his back,
Felt ever tighter,
Seizing the top,
Feeling the breeze crash against his brow,
The Pilgrim could not help,
But close his eyes a brief moment,
In the temporal bliss of an earthly triumph,
Like a vapor continuing to rise.
Looking down,
The green valley peaceful,
He imagined the people there,
The weave of the baskets,
They carry from house to house,
The color of the church house,
It's worn attendance strong,
And he began down the slope,
Towards home.
His tears served to speak,
What he could not say as he passed,
Through the long rusted archway,
And saw the children,
Chasing around the fountain.
The few days left passed,
Quickly by tired Pilgrim,
Till he found the strength to forgive,
And lay relaxed on,
The old spring mattress,
Socks worn with holes.
And he imagined he had returned,
As he would that day return,
To the bosom of the Lord above,
A vapor in himself rising,
At peace,
In Joy.
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