Is that our home, there, where we hang our hats?

There, where we boil our eggs and stroke the cat?

Knowing each cranny of our ingle nook

We turn the pages of our well thumbed book.

Home, sweet home!, yet, there is still an unease.

Cat-like it comes, our peace to paw and tease.

Close the castle door! Put the kettle on!

This is my chez-moi!, - for, how ever long?

We stand at the window, take in the view.

The cat in the room is just passing through.

 

By the rivers of Babylon our tears stream down,

A foreign place, strange faces, foreign sounds.

“Sing us a song from your far away land.

We hear, milk and honey there did abound.”

“Tell us your story. How came your woes?

We hear, that God's glory once was yours.”

How can we sing, so far from our home?

Only sorrows we bring, shame's dust on our feet.

Thrust from our soil with deep sorrow we moan.

With longing we weep for the place of our birth.

Its sweet memory we keep. This is not home.

God says we will see heaven's kingdom on earth.

 

The traveler stopped at the side of the road

He read the sign pointing up to the hill.

'Home', said the sign. In his mind the word glowed.

Memories came back as he stood there, still.

The narrow track was well trod but not smooth.

“Probably just some hillbilly village.”

The world weary traveler pondered and mused,

“A place for the night, to break the voyage.”

There was fire and food and friendly faces.

Folk, by their talk, seemed glad they were living.

Each day taken with its joys and stresses.

He slept well and awoke to birds singing.

On the track back there was a coloured stone.

He picked it up to remind him of Home.