Images of a wanderer flood the the vision of my minds eye
heavy footsteps falling full of memories, dust kicked up and blown
by heavy, weighted, breaths with the rising and swelling of a chest
and in this chest there is no room for Him,
pain and parting have consumed the space,
the wreckage of decision, sealed shut the door for grace.

The face I recognize, and recoil at the eyes
it is I who hath no room for Him, but it is He who would not make a place.
Is not He the mighty one, of whom the ageless stories tell
who vanquished death and shut the gates of all the boiling throngs of hell?
And here am I a simple fool who hath no room a midst the throbbing of my pain.
If I not can make Him space, is that the end of all the God that ever was in me,
is this the end of all the light that ever aided men blind as I to clutch to see?

Oh Father, it all lays firmly on my head, I am the transgressor and the dead
but you were always more, more and more and more! Never lacking to overcome
all that my stubbornness ever had in store!
Now I am a wanderer again, and still, I rest my eyes upon the visage
of the one place where you are greater than, yet found sweetly in,
all that I have swallowed and defiled, broken and reviled
I rest my eyes to search once again for the clarity of place
a hill where truth still stands stretched from hollowness to home
a place where I can still be found and still be called your own.