Pressing ahead on lonely path
I make my retreat;
make my advance.
In gusts of wind and driving rain
I face the storm
to feel again.
Ahead some crumbling, broken walls
a Temple, not unlike mine - She calls
me in, out here;
welcomes without cheapening cheer.
We cry;
affirm each-other's worth.
She tells her tale of pain;
the holy, birthed.
Then round her cross
painted names on stones I see;
And join them, crying out my praise
in faithful weathered community.
