Far From This Little House
As I sit here this evening it occurs to me
That I am passing time counting markers in my life
With a sense of waiting.
And I ask myself, "Waiting for what?"
Far, far from this little house
On this little street.
I see green fields, planted in corn,
Cattle grazing in the pastures and lovely bright woods
Where I can take long autumn walks and lie down to sleep
Unafraid if I so choose.
I am tired, so tired of pretending to be happy here.
I see no magic cure for what I believe is true;
"This world is not my home," as the old hymn says.
And it is home that I ache for.
I am a nomad not by my own choice,
And I am no good at it.
I look to the night sky and find Orion
And whisper in my heart to God
"Come, come, come Lord."
Sweet Jesus, loyal brother, precious savior, my friend.
My home is with you. I am not waiting for death
I am waiting for life.
Read my thoughts. Feel my pain. Purify me
As the bride would bathe herself for her lover,
So would I cleanse myself for you.
Come for me. Take me home. Come for me, come for me.
I beg you my love...
Come for me.
© 2016 by Sheila King
