One day I’ll put on my walking shoes.
Maybe the house will burn down
or I’ll be tossed out into the street;
maybe it’ll be wanderlust, cabin fever.
I’ll become a pilgrim then – a lengthy,
arduous journey becoming my life
and what will be left of me? Nothing more
towards the end than my walking shoes,
one foot wearily in front of the other,
bearing my soul towards the threshold
where sanctity dictates, of course,
the removal of these smelly, heavy, broken,
worn and dusty, sweat-stained,
my spirit laved and unshod to freely enter
the holy immaculate house of God.
O child of God, Moses was plainly told –
no man sees My face and lives.