Sometimes is a fleeting glimpse
at joy waiting in the distance,
The hoped for angelic choir a mystery
wanting to sing in my heart,
Mostly it’s the nothing like this,
This place I dream about,
and long for,
In the meantime I walk along
this bloody path
to the way that I don’t love,
At least love enough,
To clap my hands and sing pale ditties,
It’s the gathering up again of
my last bit of courage,
Feeling the ground with feet bared,
Noticing every stone and prickle,
Holiness is when I stop to rest
tired and uncomfortable,
And this place becomes holy,
Feet bloody and bruised,
A smear of my blood on the stones
a sacred mark,
My footsteps remembered by this road.