G. E. Reynolds (1949– )
O no, I’m not questing terrestrial nirvana—
just a simple stroll down this alpine dirt road.
The gravel, stirred by tire treads, evokes a childhood
memory of the excitement of road building—
the aroma of progress and the risk of travel.
Beside the road in wounded earth the bluits grow—
that’s why we call them cow pees, because
adversity’s their best soil—their metier.
O no, my trek is not a pilgrimage as goal—
perpetual peregrinations ending in road dust.
This road, like all others, has a destination—
the lodge at Shiloh, “that which belongs to him.”
To whom? The one who formed the bluits—
to him we sing praise—a journey hymn,
no gallivanting jaunt—but a dusty path to glory.
Ordained Servant Online, February 2012.