Wanderings

Through barren wastes of ash and stone
The ascetic walked, in faith alone
The sun, a pyre, bled red and pale
As winds did wail a mournful tale

His flesh grew weak, his breath ran dry
Yet prayers rose up to pierce the sky
When from the dust a shadow loomed
A saintly corpse, from grave exhumed

Its bones did gleam with spectral fire
Its hollow eyes burned fierce, entire
“O pilgrim, lost in dread’s domain,  
Rise now, and walk the path of pain”  

Its voice was both a hymn and cry,
A beacon bright, yet sharp with sigh
Its frame, though broken, stood with grace
And bade him follow through the waste

“To martyr’s land, where heavens weep
To fields where holy blood runs deep
There lies the truth, both fierce and vast
To cleanse thy soul of sins long past.”  

Through shattered skulls and relics strewn
Beneath a sick and spectral moon
The saintly guide with bony hand  
Did lead him through the cursed land

“Behold,” it spoke, “these bones of old
Who bore the cross through fires cold
Their wounds did sing of Christ’s own grace
And marked the path for thee to trace.”  

The sands ran red with blood long dried
The bones sang hymns of those who died
The ascetic wept but journeyed still
Through endless pain, through boundless will

At last, atop a hill of flame
Where saints were forged and martyrs came
The skeleton turned, with hollow face
And pointed to a sacred place

“Here lies thy cross, thy crown of thorn  
Thy flesh shall break, thy soul reborn
Through blood and bone, thy God shall see  
Thy faithful toil, thy victory.”  

The ascetic knelt, his voice a cry
“O Christ, my King, to Thee I die!”  
The bones gave way, their purpose done
And faded 'neath the rising sun

Through pain and loss, his soul took flight
To meet his God in endless light
For in the waste, through blood and flame
He found his crown, he bore His name