In my line, my blood, my
ancestry,
their pulses, course through
my veins
the blood of those hardy
souls,
the first Pilgrims, those
who lived and died
for their faith, in the raw
land, the new world
living by the Compact, the
covenant they crafted
in the little boat, before
they went ashore
and cast their fate to the
wilds of the North Atlantic
to this beachhead on the
shore, the bulwark
the port to the frontier
beyond
so long ago, so near to home
Going there, to their
village, seeing people portraying
my ancestors, reading more,
learning more
of the Speedwell, my
grandfather their leader
the work of my blood, my
kin, their faith
down through the
generations, here in New England
I feel the connection, the
bond, with my forebears
who met and welcomed their
neighbors,
who broke bread and gave
thanks in this new land
before the migration west,
before the birth of a nation
the rise of the colonies and
the fight with the natives
I know some of what they
must have felt,
in knowing their God, in God’s
faithfulness in struggle,
Seeing the God of creation,
helping them, walking beside them
in creating the colony, the
bastion of religious freedom
the beachhead indeed in this
foreign land
Giving thanks myself, this
Thanksgiving, as they did
because their God is my God,
and God has blessed me too, beyond
measure,
beyond any earning of that
blessing;
by grace alone, we are
blessed
and we too give thanks.
------
edited November 27, 2014
Blood of the Pilgrims – v2
Thanksgiving Day
November 22, 2006 12:09
Blood of the Pilgrims
All of my poems
are copyrighted by Raymond A. Foss, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006,
2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014. All rights reserved. Contact me
at Ray Foss
for usage. See all 33,930+ of my poems at www.raymondafoss.blogspot.com
Poetry Where You Live.
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