With knotted rope in hand,
he drags the chest, creaking under its hidden weight—
whether filled with treasures or troubles, who can tell?
The road stretches long, yet each mile hums:
‘What we carry shapes who we become.’
The vessel, full of unspoken words,
feels heavy in his hands.
He holds it, unasked, with fingers worn from yesterday’s memories.
Will it break before it’s emptied? Or was breaking the goal all along?
The potter understood the clay might crack,
yet He still lifted the vessel from dust to sky.
Not every journey need foot to walk—
Some are carried, quietly, in the hands of Grace.
At last, the weight rests on the ground,
the porter exhales, the vessel waits.
What it held, only silence knows.
