I scrape the dirt off shoes that wear too many miles,
and brush away imagined flies that dream to rest
upon my face. I seek a home, but am a guest
condemned to travel paths that lie among gentiles.

I’m lost, two thousand years, and still I face the trials
of growing old beyond my time, for who had guessed
the man I mocked might hold my eyes, give me this test:
“Come back when I return, the one your world reviles."

He walked away. Then soldiers nailed him to the wood,
to hang until his breath ran out. The sun stood dark
and I was lost, while gamblers cast without concern.

I’ve walked away to every land from where I stood
and back to home: Jerusalem still breaks, so stark
with pain and death, until I witness his return.


                                   9 November 2023