Pilgrims' Field
I am walking up this hill
To a field of golden wheat
From which the sacred bread is made
That pilgrims long to eat
The morning sun is high
But this wood is dark and still
It is long, and hard, and food is scarce
But I am walking up this hill
Each time I fall or faint
There, is a healing tree
Planted by my great friend
To bring hope and strengthen me
As I rise to walk again
I am further up the road
Somehow carried by the healing
Closer now to God
It is the dream of that golden bread,
The embrace of those sacred hands
That keep my footsteps resolute
All up this dark green land
WILF 07/2016
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