The Road Without a Purse

A Poem Inspired by Matthew 10:5-10

Along the dust of morning’s tender rise,

When amber light lay soft on olive leaves,

The Master spoke beneath unclouded skies

Of paths where faith alone the heart receives.

He called the twelve beside the narrow way,

Where sandals met the stones of Galilee,

And in the quiet wind of dawning day

Entrusted them with holy poverty.

“Go not where foreign altars crown the hills,

Nor where the distant roads of strangers wind;

But seek the scattered flocks on Judah’s rills,

The weary sheep that wander lost and blind.

For they have waited through the silent years,

Through prophets’ echoes fading into air;

Now carry forth a kingdom to their ears—

The kingdom drawing near, the promised care.”

No scepter shone within the Teacher’s hand,

No banner stirred above a marching throng;

Yet in His voice there moved a vast command,

More deep than iron, and more old than song.

The kingdom was not fashioned out of gold,

Nor guarded by the sharpened spear of kings;

It blossomed where the wounded hearts were told

That heaven stoops with healing in its wings.

“Go heal the sick whose nights are long with pain;

Let broken limbs remember strength again.

Wake those whom death has folded in its chain;

Make clean the souls long hidden among men.

Cast out the shadows clinging to the mind,

Where darkened spirits whisper fear and blame;

For freely have you gathered what is mine,

So freely let the world receive the same.”

No silver rang within their travel purse,

No gleam of copper lined their simple thread;

They walked the roads beneath both grace and curse

With empty hands and faith for daily bread.

No staff was given for the desert mile,

No double cloak against the midnight air;

Yet in their need the unseen would compile

The quiet wealth of providential care.

For truth walks lighter when the hands are bare,

And mercy finds its voice in humble breath;

The heart unburdened learns the truer prayer

That trusts beyond the bargaining of death.

So went they forth where village lanterns burned

And children traced the twilight in the dust;

Through every gate where restless hearts had yearned

For words more strong than sorrow’s brittle crust.

They walked where figs bent low in summer heat,

Where wells were deep with whispered histories;

They paused where strangers washed their travel-worn feet

And spoke of dawn beyond the centuries.

Some doors were opened wide with grateful cheer,

Some closed like stone against the pilgrim band;

Yet still the message traveled far and near,

A quiet fire no darkness could withstand.

For kingdoms built of coin will fade away,

And crowns of iron crumble into sand;

But one small word spoken in faith’s array

Can turn the desert green across the land.

So through the dust of every humble street

The echo of that ancient charge still roams:

Carry no purse, let mercy guide your feet,

And trust that heaven waits in strangers’ homes.