Poetry

---

In my line, my blood,
there pulses, course through my veins
the blood of those hardy souls,
the first Pilgrims, those who lived and died
for their faith, in the raw land, the new world
living my the Compact, the covenant they crafted
in the little boat, before they went ashore
and cast their fate to the wilds of the North Atlantic
to this beachhead on the shore, the bulwark
the port to the frontier beyond
so long ago, so near to home
Going there, to their village, seeing people portraying
my ancestors, reading more, learning more
of the Speedwell, my grandfather their leader
the work of my blood, my kin, their faith
down through the generations, here in New England
I feel the connection, the bond, with my forebears
who met and welcomed their neighbors,
who broke bread and gave thanks in this new place
before the migration west, before the birth of a nation
the rise of the colonies and the fight with the natives
I know some of what they must have felt, in knowing their God
seeing the God of creation, helping them, walking beside them
in creating the colony, the bastion of religious freedom
the beachhead indeed in this foreign land
Giving thanks myself, this Thanksgiving, as they did
because their God is my God,
and God has blessed me too,
beyond measure, beyond any earning of that blessing;
by grace alone, we are blessed
and we give thanks.

November 22, 2006 12:09

---

PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR BELOW LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE