The Pilgrim

Some time in 1994, Sharon and I met a lovely Mormon girl. She had a lot of questions and was exploring the reaches of her faith. I wrote this poem for her. It's a little rough, but this is pretty much as it came out, first draft:

A pilgrim stands 'neath 'chanted skies
Surveying the hills where once he trod.
He must press on; he turns and sighs;
And lifts his hands to an unknown God.

He fears no answer to his quest
wheron he youthfully once set.
All seems beyond reach - all life a jest;
Tenaciously he does not give up - not yet.

Life is, he thinks, a curious thing.
Cannot decide whether blessing or disease...
He knows not where the path is going
But 'tis better than the outset, he decides with ease.

All pilgrims in a foreign land
Pursuing answers to questions unspoken.
Craving some meaning to "all this" and
Praying that Heaven's silence be broken.

A shout is heard - "'Tis finished - all's done!"
His heart is lifted - he knows not why!
The voice he knows at last - The Son;
His soul surmonts the bright'ning sky.

The answers laid before him, he sees
That all was there e'en before he looked.
All loneliness takes fright and flees;
And from death's door yon pilgrim's plucked.