The Traveller

Along the road he came,
A winding road: wind and rain.
A Traveller, . . . no name.
Valleys low, mountains steep,
On he trudged, he did not sleep.
A rocky path, a narrow way,
Where he would go? He could not say.
Days of blazing sun. Nights, . . . icy cold.
A voice he heard inside: 'Be strong! . . . Be Bold!'
A light, a sign, an open door?
Some thing to make his calling sure.
On and on he walked,. . . and talked,
To the One who knew the way,
Trying close beside to stay.
The way was hard, he did not rest.
He was sure he would be blessed.
And at the end he would see,
. . . the Traveller's Inn
And on the door a sign would be,
. . . "Please Come In !

- Peter Taekema -