Because Home is Where the Heart Is

The Christian’s never really home.

His life is pilgrimage in roam.

No matter his address in sod,

His soul is ever seeking God.

A quest that far transcends the soil.

Yet here he walks, for life is toil.

A preparation, if you will

Of stretch and build and up and hill.

His dwelling here my never change

Or life may move him wide in range.

He always knows, within his soul

It’s just a temporary goal.

The street or road where he pulls in

To close the door against the din

Or leave as quite ajar for friends

To hospitality’s warm ends.

It’s just a shadow on the road

To all eternity’s abode.

The merest taste of that great feast

That sure awaits when life has ceased.

Earth’s home’s a privilege, a place

To love, to nurture in life’s race

All those that God brings to our door

To help them gain their footing sure

Too soon to send them on their way

To build new homes that seek His stay.

It’s always hard to let them go

For we are wired for below.

How quickly we forget that we

Live precipiced eternity.

We’re on the edge of home so grand

We cannot hope to understand.

Our lives mere murmurs on the shore

Of storied now and evermore.

The glory of our mansion there

We cannot comprehend, as heir

And yet that promise lights our way

As we build homes, in jars of clay

And live our faith beneath this dome

Until, in love, He calls us home.

Soli Deo Gloria.