Pathfinder

You stood up straight like yes-sir stone,

a boy with eyes like unstruck bells,

your hand a small unbroken plea

cradled the place where God looks first.

Still, they warned you, like good parents do—

that Jesus Christ is coming soon.

You meant it like the good boys do:

I will be pure, kind, and true.

As if you could be good enough.

As if you had to be.

You were soft enough to try

to stay on the right path.

And maybe if someone stayed

long enough to hold your hand,

maybe if they hadn’t moved you

like a broken compass—

new schools, new pews, new names to learn,

maybe if

the unspeakable hadn’t happened to you

you’d still believe you could

have found the right path

and ever walked it far enough,

as if the path could make you pure,

not the One who walked it first.