This Crossroads-Inn Called Earth

I am not the child of any place.
You’d wonder if each blade of grass
Was made for treading down by any foot
But mine. And if each grassy dell,
Each rambling mossy oak, each sleepy brook
Would claim a hundred lonely wandering names
Within their halls — but leave me here left unclaimed,
Untethered to the land, a small pale mist
Which cannot even touch the ground.
My Lord —
Is it true?
Did you make me for some other place?
I long to belong to some nook in this world —
But why should I, when the dell and the oak and the brook
Are only the garden around this crossroads-inn called Earth
On our way home?
I’m only staying the night, after all;
I can’t be too long from home, from my Father.
Why must I give myself to this passing-place
When I belong to You?
Irrevocably, wholly, eternally to You?
Father, I’ve been traveling so long —
Remind me of the sweetness of Your embrace,
The sweetness of Home.

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