The Lamp Within the Pilgrim’s Hand
A Poem by Russ Hjelm
Beside the road where ancient olives bend
And evening gathers softly on the hill,
There walks a soul whom Heaven calls a friend,
Whose listening heart the world cannot make still.
Not crowned with gold nor clothed in robes of pride,
Nor lifted high by trumpet, throne, or fame,
But one who keeps the Sacred Word beside
The trembling chambers where the spirit came.
The dust of years may gather on the stone,
Empires may rise and perish into night,
Yet truth eternal stands still alone,
A steadfast star no darkness e’er can smite.
And blessed is the one whose soul hath learned
To bind that truth upon the inward frame,
Whose midnight thoughts toward holy wisdom turned,
And whispered softly on the Eternal Name.
For there are paths that glitter for an hour
And roads where multitudes with laughter stray;
There are bright gardens masking poison’s power,
And songs that charm the weary heart away.
Yet all such glory fades like the dew
When dawn appears upon the waiting field,
But words once spoken by the Lord are true,
A living fire no grave of earth can seal.
The righteous man doth walk a quieter road,
Though storms descend and bitter winds arise;
He carries not the world’s oppressive load
By strength alone beneath the darkened skies.
Instead he leans on a greater hand,
An unseen mercy guiding every pace,
And meditates till he understand
The hidden riches of unfailing grace.
He reads not as scholars read a page
To gather praise from men who pass away;
He seeks not the hollow wreath of age
Nor fleeting honor crowned upon a day.
But like the pilgrim kneeling by the stream,
He drinks deeply where the waters flow,
Until the holy words begin to gleam
Like stars reflected in the depths below.
At dawn he lifts up the sacred line,
And morning breaks upon his inward sight;
At dusk he whispers promises divine
While lamps awaken in the folds of night.
The weary earth may tremble under fear,
And kingdoms roar like seas against the shore,
Yet still the voice of Heaven lingers near,
More constant than the tides forevermore.
The ancient cedar standing through the storm
Takes its strength from roots concealed from view;
Thus souls shaped daily by the Sacred Form
Bear fruits eternal, steadfastly and true.
For meditation is no idle dream
Nor wandering thought adrift in empty air;
It is the turning of the inward stream
Toward Him who hears every whispered prayer.
And slowly does the heart become renewed,
As winter fields grow green beneath the rain;
The harshness buried deep within the blood,
The hidden wound, the long-abiding stain,
Are touched by mercy gentle as the spring,
And softened by the wisdom from above,
Till bitterness forgets how to cling,
And fear is overcome by perfect love.
O blessed are the souls who keep the Word
When silence covers all the earth with frost,
Who trust the promise they alone have heard
Though every outward evidence seems lost.
For there are nights when even saints grow weak,
And tears descend like rivers through the soul,
When Heaven seems distant to those who seek,
And broken fragments mock the longing whole.
Yet even there the sacred promise burns,
A lantern hidden underneath the cloak;
The faithful heart still to the Master turns,
Though trembling be the prayer the pilgrim spoke.
And in that hour unseen by mortal eye,
The Lord Himself draws near once more,
As stars appear when deepest shadows lie
Across the restless ocean’s midnight floor.
The holy writings are not chains of stone
To bind the heart in lifeless, cold command;
They are the living breath of God made known,
A lamp entrusted to the pilgrim’s hand.
Through wilderness and valley dark with grief,
Through warfare, famine, sorrow, pain, and loss,
The soul that clings unto this sure belief
Shall find beneath its burden still a cross—
Not merely one of anguish and of shame,
But one transformed by resurrection light,
Where suffering itself is overcome,
And mourning flees from eternal sight.
For every sacred page does whisper Christ,
The Living Word whom death could never bind,
The Shepherd sacrificed, the spotless Price,
The King who heals both the soul and mind.
And when the years have vanished like the mist,
When mortal strength grows feeble in the bone,
The one who walked beside the Word of Christ
Shall never stand before the grave alone.
For truths once planted deep within the breast
Will rise again though flesh return to dust,
And every promise giveth final rest
Unto the soul that learned at last to trust.
Then shall the pilgrim, finished with the strife,
Behold the City built beyond decay,
Where streams of endless and abundant life
Shine brighter than the breaking of the day.
And there the songs once sung through tears below
Will thunder forth like mighty choirs above,
As saints redeemed eternally shall know
The fullness of the everlasting love.
So let the weary world pursue its gain,
Its fleeting crowns that perish into flame;
The faithful soul shall not have lived in vain
Who treasured deeply the Eternal Name.
For blessed are the hearts that keep the Word,
Who meditate by night and meditate by day;
Their footsteps shall by Heaven still be heard
Long after earth and stars have passed away.