Where's the Lord

Weary and lonesome I wandered around to search for my Lord. I was, however, unable to find the Lord neither amongst mannequins in the busiest pedestrian traffic, nor the amidst of majestic cathedral surrounded by the windows with sacred images colorfully arranged on the stained glasses. I roamed the dark street with candlelight in my hand, but I found you not in the alley between heavy-eyed buildings that are short and tall, or the back lane between the mosaic of sleeping old and new houses. I found you not in the empty market place where the crowd returned to their home long ago, carrying the baggage of stale stories wrapped in the money traded with the uncertain tomorrow. Exhausted from search of the Lord I came and sat in the bar to empty the glasses, however, the Lord was not in the glasses I emptied. For I was tired of looking at the pile of glasses I emptied, destroyed it, run out from the bar, and stepped on the middle of the night’s moonbeam and followed the footmarks the Lord left for the lonely souls. When the wind rises by a solitary riverside the moonbeam ripples to wane, and when I see the ripples of moonbeam the Lord comes: to the field once I was visited and forgot a long ago, to the field other side of the river where broken reeds stand, to the abandoned field where the heap of sadness became the sands. When the Lord crosses the river, though no word is spoken, He stands by me with open armed to welcome this wandering soul, with full of tears in his eyes for the sake of this lonely and deserted heart.