This Christmas-time my son will come, <br />God willing, to the Holy Place <br />And by the manger's little room <br />Will bend his knee and bow his face, <br />Eager, with shepherds and with kings, <br />For to behold the Holy Things. <br /> <br />The very child I made will see, <br />God willing, little Bethlehem, <br />The Garden of the Agony, <br />Olivet and Jerusalem <br />And climb to Calvary's sacred hill -- <br />Ah, but the world is Calvary still! <br /> <br />My own son's feet the dust shall press, <br />God willing, where the Holy Feet <br />Passed on His Father's business: <br />And some high room above the street <br />Shall stir a memory of that Feast <br />Where He himself was Eucharist. <br /> <br />Yea, by the Gate called Beautiful <br />My son, my little son, shall go <br />And bathe in Siloam's healing pool. <br />Yet if God will not have it so <br />At least my son, in His high Name, <br />Has travelled towards Jerusalem.<br /><br />Katharine Tynan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pilgrims-to-the-east/
