They confessed

They confessed
And they did not deny 
To the ones that 
Cocked a brow:

Strangers and wanderers. 

People on the move. 
Always journeying, 
Always following, 
Always longing 
For home. 

“But just take it! It’s here.”
It’s not. 
Not the home He has. 

This street, these trees, 
That breakfast table 
Soaked in sunshine. 
It’s beautiful. 

But there is a street 
Paved in gold
I haven’t seen. 

And there is a tree
Whose leaves heal the nations 
That are fractured here. 

And there is a table
Full of light and joy and laughter,
Surrounded by redeemed 
I haven’t seen. 

So I confess: 
I will wander 
And lose 
And miss 
And go.

Until I reach that city 
Whose Founder and Maker 
Is God.