Life as a Christian Woman

I wrote Journey of a Sinner in 2001, and in 2004 it was chosen as the 1st place winner in the Poetry of Today Christian poetry contest. The length prohibits me from submitting it for publication, so I decided to share it here. I hope you enjoy it.

JOURNEY OF A SINNER

A lone man traveled down a dark and deserted road
In a worn and weathered gown, the remnants of a robe.
His features seemed so slight, his age advancing to death’s door;
He had faced many nights and would not see many more.
His hand rested atop a long and battered sword,
Testament to wars fought with valor for his lord.
And on his brow a scar, pale in the full moon light,
Gave hint to days by far more harsh than this cold night.
Hunger gnawed his body and never left his thoughts,
But he knew that in his life it was paled by a bigger drought.
The many years of death and slaughter had begun to take their toll
And bore a hole straight through his heart to the center of his soul.
All the battles he had waged without fear or hesitance
Never prepared him for this time of facing eternity’s presence.
For days he had been wandering, seeking a peaceful place
On which to rest his heavy burdens and wait for death’s embrace.
But no sight, as yet, had brought that stir he longed for in his heart –
A hint that all would be well and the end worth the start.
With darkness closing in and the moon appearing overhead,
His eyes gazed upward, his steps faltered, and his soul filled with dread.

With the last of his strength, he shouted, “Is there no rest for an old man?
I have served my time, defended my king, brought peace to all the land!
I have been honored at court; the bards sing praises to my name.
The fields of death were not my choosing; I am not to blame!
The spoils of war made me a rich man, built me a castle of stone.
But in my last days a tormented soul brings me here to die alone!”
Too weak to go farther, he laid down his sword, the scabbard a pillow of sorts,
And closed his eyes, fighting back tears, ashamed of his sudden remorse.
Through the dust of the road he stared ahead, searching for the proof
That his time on earth had not been wasted, but still it seemed aloof.
And then, the tiniest flicker, a flame? Could it be?
He saw the faint orange glow but still wondered, should he believe?
The longer he watched, the brighter it grew, and suddenly he dared
To stand slowly, hoping against hope, his loneliness had been spared.
He gathered his sword, straightened his robe, and started toward the light,
His heart leaping, willing his body not to shiver against the cold night.

Behind the flames a stranger sat stirring a pot of stew.
As he looked up, the old man had the oddest feeling the stranger knew.
“Peace, brother. Come, share my hearth, such as it is,”
His voice beckoned to the old wanderer. “Where go you on a night like this?”
“My journey has been long; I would welcome a meal and brotherhood.
‘Tis never so lonely as the looming shadows that creep in a quieted wood.”
Slowly, the wanderer lowered his frame to warm ground by the fire.
His bones felt the ache of too long life and enemies’ baleful ire.
With palsied hands he reached for the goblet of mulled wine
And sipped, wondering who, and from whence this man came, and why.
His garb was simple unbleached wool with leather sandals upon his feet.
Common but clean, the kind that any good country wife could weave.
His hands were smooth, gentle but not unacquainted with work.
The smile was genuine and readily available, not just the usual smirk.
But the feature that drew attention again and again was the eyes.
Somehow they pulled one in, suffering apparent, also calm and wise.
They showed understanding without judgment for those who cared to see,
And great love without prejudice for all who could perceive.
His voice was soothing, a pleasant sound for one wrestling inner ills.
“Are you traveling alone? Your speech belies you hail from the hills.”

“You hear correctly, for the hills I did once call my home.
But too many campaigns and barbarian routs left but piles of stone.
As for family, ‘twas long ago I had a wife and sons.
No better lot could a man ask for than my loved ones.
My lady – her beauty could melt even the most hardened of hearts;
Her countenance so bright and sweet, well known throughout these parts.
Each time I returned from service to my king and countrymen,
The fires were burning as a beacon, welcoming a tired swordsman.”
The old man’s voice grew quieter, deepening as if with sorrow.
“And my sons, three of them with such promise for the morrow.
Strong and handsome lads, they were, each with a passion for the land.
But a fatal blow were they all dealt by Fate’s unwavering hand.
My wife and youngest first, by rogues from across the sea.
And the plague followed, taking the last of my dearest ones from me.
So here am I, a lone traveler, and alone I am doomed to stay,
With a heart that is ever breaking, and life slipping away.
But I am sorry; you must be growing weary of my recounting.
‘Tis of little consequence in the last hours of a man’s accounting.
You will think me rude, for I have not even ventured to ask your name.
How is it that you have come here to listen to an old man’s pain?”

The stranger sat quiet for a moment, staring upward at the stars.
His hands were folded upon his lap, the flames reflecting faint scars.
The old man wondered how they grew there, but did not inquire.
He supposed, like himself, they came from years of battle against Eire.
The stranger’s words, when he spoke, were soft and comforting.
It seemed they came from deep within a heart of understanding.
“My father told a story once; long ago did I hear
Of a man who had in this world all that he could bear.
Wife and family, home and hearth, wealth around abounded.
Unblemished reputation, his name Job the very hills resounded.
But time and again was he struck by tragedy and despair,
‘Til all that was left of his vast wealth was a shirt of camel’s hair.
His livestock were stolen by raiders whose swords ran his servants through.
The heavens rained fire upon shepherds and sheep, consuming all he knew.
And even as these perils were taking place as though evil driven,
A great wind sent to their deaths each one of his beloved children.”

“Tragic!” the old man cried out. “This world leaves none alone!
To hear his shouts of anguish must have chilled one to the bone!”
Startled, the stranger looked at the old man with a smile.
“Ah, but you see, the happy end came after a while.
For even through anguish and tears and great pain within,
Job never forgot to look to God. He did not say, ‘never again.’
His heart stayed true. He did not speak down the wrath of the Lord.
He held forth in defense even to those who questioned God’s word.
And for his faith, the Lord once again blessed him richly.
Job lived long enough to be restored twice his former glory.
His wealth no man could match; his heirs most beautiful in the land.
Despite such tragedies as he lived, he died a blessed man.”

The old man slumped forward a bit, staring at the ground,
His eyes brimming with tears, his voice barely making a sound.
“This God of Job’s; he must have been very good indeed
To come to the aid of a faithful servant in his time of need.
Many names have I cried out and offered sacrifices on altars,
But their temples were silent and no answer came to a heart that faltered.
What is the name of this ‘Lord’ your father spoke of?
Is his temple still kept? Which is his throne in the stars above?”

“His name is simply ‘God Our Father.’ He is Lord of all, and King.
As for His temple, just look around. He is found in everything.
The light of the stars, the breeze on the air, the waters that flow and abate;
Even the creatures that dwell on this earth, His own hand did create.
No other can come before Him, for He is the One True God.
And man and woman He placed here to reign in peace and accord.
But alas, it has not happened. Man’s weakness abandons Him for fame.
Money, power, affairs of the heart have led all away from His name.
He looks down from above and waits, weeping for His lost children.
When one lost finds His light again, the Heavens rejoice with thanksgiving.
He gathers that one in His loving arms as a father coddles his babe.
With mercy, the Lord’s love washes away sin, so the soul is saved.”

The old man yearned with all his heart for the words to hold true.
His soul felt the stirrings that he thought a lifetime of war slew.
So many questions arose in his mind, he knew not where to start.
He ached to know more of the God of love and how to be a part.
“If man’s sins are so great,” he asked the other, “how can this God reclaim?
How can He gaze upon such lowly ones and allow them to utter His name?
Nothing can erase the horrors of which I have seen and partaken.
I left widows and orphans and battered men with every step ever taken.
I set fire to villages with a flame that would rival the fall of Pompeii.
No, there could be nothing left in these old bones for even your God to save.”
With compassion in his eyes, the stranger took the old man’s hand.
“But the Lord has seen, and still He awaits you in the Glory Land.
He has made a way that even the vilest of evils cannot undo.
In His most merciful act, He sent to earth His own son to die for you.
His son, though tempted, never fell to the spoils of man’s endeavors.
And in your stead He hung from a cross, His blood shed for all, forever.
To claim the Lord’s promises all He asks is that you believe in His sacrifice.
Accept in your heart the truth already known, that His son paid the price.”

The old man took his hand from the stranger’s to wipe away the tears.
His soul could feel the burdens lifting, taking with them all his fears.
For the first time it seemed his journey had led him in the right direction.
But still there remained one last thing, so he put forth his question:
“What happened to the Son of God? Where does His body lie?”
The stranger smiled and said, “Only three days did He die.
He arose from the tomb and reigns at the right hand of the Father.
He prepares the way for all who seek Him; He is the Living Water.”

The dawn crested the world and shed its light on the two,
A weary knight and a kind stranger sharing a pot of stew.
The sun’s rays cast a twinkle in the eyes of a peaceful soul,
And he lifted his gaze to the morning, for the first time feeling whole.
The stranger stood and began to gather his belongings from the grass.
He knew that the old warrior was no longer haunted by his past.
“I must travel on,” he said. “Where will you go, my friend?”
“Please!” the old man cried. “Don’t leave me here ‘til the end!
My days are short, I know, but I can at least make the inn at the ford.
I long to hear more of your stories of the glory of our Lord.”
With a nod of his head, the stranger helped the old man to his feet.
“Come as far as you are able. Perhaps more travelers we’ll meet.”

The old man asked what name he should call the stranger, so wise.
His reply was, “I have many names, but am best known as Jesus the Christ.”

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