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A Journey
By Denny Lancaster
There was the door, we had no key,
through the veil we could not see;
Some little folk did talk to me,
asked softly where were thee.
Earth could not answer on that morn,
thus my heart felt so much forlorn;
Nor would heavens signs reveal,
and no, your hand we could not feel.
Could it have been were we blind,
for we knew you had not let us behind;
So the key we sought to find,
from the little folk who were so kind.
First we sought the book of old,
from the maker of our human mold;
In these words our mind did sup,
found a clue, when we looked up.
Then we looked in a poor earthen urn,
from our own life we had much to learn;
Found answers on how not to live,
perhaps another clue you did give.
We remembered stopping by the way,
to watch the Potter molding clay;
And with an often unheard tongue,
reminded us as brothers to pray.
Now with soul dust flung aside,
into a dark valley we slowly did ride,
they asked were we ashamed of him,
but the key, they did not hide.
Perhaps the hilltop, false and true,
will give us another helpful clue;
But life's drama before us did unfold,
and around us dark clouds just rolled.
So we laid down on our stubborn floor,
to look for the key for the door,
lay prostrate for an hour or more,
tasted of our life's bitter grape,
then saw the Angels shining shape.
She scattered whirlwinds with a sword,
asked us again to pray to our dear Lord,
and if we in him would lay our trust,
or fill the cup, when crumbled into dust.
Of our base metal may be found the key,
and then opening the door may we see,
one last harvest sowed by the seed,
for in this poem clues may all of us read.
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