I am so worn—all the miles walked on dusty roads, grit
stinging my eyes, stepping over dung, popping blistery toes,
swatting insects at night, staring at the moon,
preparing my friends for my hour . . .
until the next day, facing spectators
and telling them how marvelous You are—
the best part! Keeps me going!
Yet, I know how soon most will stiff their necks,
scowl and murmur, when I teach at the city
my Dad founded.
My Dad, surely, they will line up when I enter,
throw coats at my feet, wave hands
and branches, cheer and raise hands…
Dad, my dearest friends shall shun and deny me.
Dad, I dread it.
There must be some other way.