Daily Sauntering

At dawn—beneath the frozen moon
suspended in the still air—
I strike a match,
and light a small flame
before the Presence
of the Lord who allows all things.

With trembling hands,
I fasten my hunger,
my frailty,
to the belt of the Lord—
and once again,
I open the prayer box.

For the brother
who sleeps with the dark in his arms,
for the sister
wading through the troubled tide,
for the child
whose growing stopped mid-summer,
for all who have fallen
among the thorns of sickness and sorrow—

Unless the sap still rises through the body,
unless the knees touch
both earth and sky,
the meeting with the Lord
is not yet complete.

So I pray—
for the day you lift your face toward light,
for the day I may become
a stepping stone beneath your feet,
for the day
you walk alone
yet unafraid.

And this small one—
by the mercy of the Lord—
opens the prayer box again
before the closed gate of heaven.

© 윤 태헌, 1978

돌담 너머, 들판 끝자락에
빈 자루들이 입 벌린 채 누워 있다—
아이들의 굶주린 손이 돌아오길
바람처럼 기다리며.

그들은 기다렸다.
그리고 그도 기다렸다.

나는 줄 것이 없었다.
보았을 뿐이었다.
삼키기엔 너무 메마른 진실—
굶주림은 몸의 일이 아니라
빵을 잊은 영혼의 일임을.

한때 자유가 외쳤다,
먼지의 입으로.
그러나 굶주림은 더 크게 울었다.

이제 해는 낮게 미끄러진다.
빛이 가장 정직해지는 그 시각,
언덕 위—
한 어부가 밤으로 던진
희망의 낚싯줄이 아직도 남아 있다.

그곳에서,
망령들이 운다.

그는 하늘 가장자리에서
어둠과 빛이 싸우는 것을 지켜본다.
그리고 그 상처 난 하늘 틈으로
세상의 옛 이야기를 다시 들려준다—
씨 뿌린 자들과
가져간 자들,
그리고 결코 잊지 않은 땅의 이야기.

무언가 푸르고 쌉쌀한 것이
그의 생각의 틈새로 스며든다—
머리에서 입으로,
가슴에서 손끝으로,
발가락까지 흘러내리며,
한때 불의 위를 맨발로 걸었던 기억처럼.

이제 들판은 비었다.
자루들도 조용하다.
바람조차 말을 멈췄다.

그리고 나—
나는 아직도 굶주려 있다.

작가의 말

「구걸」은 1978년에 쓰여졌습니다. 그 시절은 육신과 영혼 모두가 굶주릴 때였습니다. 이 시는 기다리는 사람들의 모습을 보고 태어났습니다— 그들은 단지 빵만을 기다린 것이 아니라, 정의와 자비, 그리고 하나님께로부터 오는 말씀을 기다리고 있었습니다.

그 침묵의 들판에서, 나는 신적 부재가 단순한 공허가 아니라 믿음이 숨 쉬는 법을 배워야 하는 공간임을 깨닫기 시작했습니다.

이 시는 외침이자 기도입니다— 세상이 가난한 자들을 외면할 때, 하나님은 어디에 계시는가를 묻는 기도입니다.

나는 결핍과 갈망의 언어를 통해 거룩한 가능성을 엿보고자 했습니다: 모든 굶주림이 하늘을 향해 들어 올려질 때, 그것이 희망과 변화의 제단이 될 수 있다는 믿음 말입니다.

© TaeHun Yoon, 1978

Beyond the stone wall,
in fields that once held vines,
only empty sacks remain—
their mouths gaping, waiting
for children who have not returned.

They waited.
And he, too, waited.

I had nothing.
Truly, for him,
there was no other desert.

Freedom cried out—
but hunger cried louder.

Now comes the most honest hour of day:
on the hill’s crest,
where a fisherman once cast his line
into the throat of night,
the ghosts begin to weep.

He watches light and shadow wrestle
at the rim of the sky,
and from that struggle,
he tells his fable of the world—
of those who sow,
and those who take,
and the earth that remembers both.

The seams of his skull split open,
and through the cracks
something thick and sweet as grass
poured in—
through brain and mouth and chest,
to the trembling tips of his toes.

Now everyone has gone.
Even the wind has learned silence.

I was truly hungry.

Author’s Note:

“Begging” was written in 1978, during a time when both body and spirit knew hunger.
It arose from the sight of people waiting—waiting not only for bread, but for justice, mercy, and a word from God.
In those fields of silence, I began to see that divine absence was not void, but a space where faith must learn to breathe.
The poem is a cry, yet also a prayer—one that asks where God dwells when the world turns away from the poor.
Through the language of emptiness and yearning, I sought to glimpse a sacred possibility:
that every hunger, if lifted toward heaven, might become an altar of hope and transformation.

Author Bio:

Tae-Hun Yoon is a Korean-born poet and retired United Methodist pastor living in Knoxville, Tennessee.
His poetry often explores the meeting ground between faith and social justice, memory and longing, silence and divine presence.
Through his work, Yoon seeks a language of transformation—where hunger becomes hope, and the human cry becomes a prayer.

주님을 내 집에 모신다 함은,

내 집의 대청소를 말함이라.

벽장 속에 상자를 열어 묶여 있는 이기심과 탐심,

허영을 털어 내고 불살음이라.

주님을 내 집에 모신다 함은,

신발장의 신들을 정리함이라.

가지 못할 길들을 위하여 예비했던 신들을 버리고,

정결과 순결의 고운 신을 준비함이라.

주님을 내 집에 모신다 함은,

옷장의 옷들을 정리함이라.

방종과 거짓, 정욕, 다툼의 헌옷을 걷어내고

관용과 양순의 눈부신 새옷으로 단장함이라.

주님을 내 집에 모신다 함은,

부엌을 대청소합이라.

철철 넘치는 욕망의 잔 쏟아 버리고

가득가득 말씀의 항아리들 준비함이라.

주님을 내 집에 모신다 함은,

방마다의 거울을 닦아님이라.

원망과 시기 분쟁의 얼룩들을 아낌없이 벗겨내어

벌거벗은 생명, 마주 바라보게 함이라.

주님을 내 집에 모신다 함은,

뜨락의 잡초들을 뽑아냄이라.

허영과 독선을 사정없이 뽑아 버리고,

영롱한 진리의 어린순들을 드리움이라.

주님을 내 집에 모신다 함은,

곳곳에 불을 밝힘이라.

답답한 가슴에 인내의 기름 가득 담아

기도의 불을 밝힘이라.

주님을 내 집에 모신다 함은,

문들을 활짝 열어 놓음이라.

명예, 부귀, 권력의 창, 순종의 열쇠로 하나씩 열어

주님만을 온전히 모심이라.

To welcome the Lord
into my house
is to begin with cleansing—
to sweep the dust
of long-forgotten corners,
and lift each curtain
that has hidden the truth.

In closets sealed by fear,
I open the boxes—
untie the cords of greed and pride,
shake loose the dust of vanity,
and feed them to the fire
of repentance.

To welcome the Lord
is to kneel at the threshold,
where shoes once waited
for forbidden roads.
Now I set them aside,
and slip on the sandals
of purity and grace.

In the wardrobe of my heart,
I fold away the garments
of deceit and indulgence,
the worn fabric of quarrel and lust,
and dress myself instead
in the bright linen
of mercy and peace.

To welcome the Lord
is to cleanse the kitchen—
to pour away the overflowing cups
of desire and excess,
and fill the jars once more
with the Word that satisfies.

Each mirror in each room
must be polished clean,
until the stains of envy and complaint
are gone—
and the naked face of life
meets the gaze of grace.

The courtyard, too, must be weeded.
Vanity and self-importance
must be torn out by the roots,
so that tender shoots of truth
may grow in their place.

To welcome the Lord
is to kindle light in every room,
to pour the oil of patience
into the weary lamp,
and strike the match of prayer
against the flint of faith.

At last, I open every door wide.
The locks of honor, wealth, and power
fall away—
and only obedience remains
to usher Him in.

Now the Lord dwells wholly within,
and my house—
once silent and dim—
breathes again
with His light.

© TaeHun Yoon, 1978

If you look from the right, his face is hard—
twisted with something mean and small.
But turn to the left, and sorrow shows,
the kind that’s forgotten what peace is called.

The earth keeps what it knows best—
hunger, thirst, and death beneath.
And so we pray with trembling breath,
“Let us walk this ground in peace.”

But the ground is never still for long;
it splits beneath the surest feet.
You are the quake, the breaking song,
your grief the fault, your pulse the beat.

We, the hungry, gather grain
from fields already stripped and dry.
Men and women, children, rain—
all wander where the furrows lie.

Don’t run too far; we’ll meet again,
when dusk leans low across the plain.
In sackcloth rough, with ashes spread,
we’ll lift our eyes and bow our heads.

This world’s one tree, from root to crown,
already hollowed through and down.
And every thought we called our own—
was crooked wood, from birth full-grown.