Poems

Thy will, not mine, be done— here was essential prayer wherein clear Christ awareness filled with light the garden of despair. Here too the sweat of self-denial stilled with blood the urgent plea: "Remove this cup from me.

Stone other sculptors rejected, Michelangelo took and struck his towering David. So metaphorically, Jesus took Truth's cornerstone, spurned by blind Pharisee, and built his church on Christ-healing that, metaphysically, we may use that cornerstone, raising up Church among men by proving through accurate prayer Christ-healing again!

There is a plan for every man, A pathway bright with glory; And we may tread where Jesus led; Death does not end the story. There is a way that day by day Leads on through pastures vernal, A purpose clear, a presence near, And this is life eternal.

Teach me, Father, how to turn thought away from self today. Those who listen spread Love's Word, surely witness sin cast out, lepers cleansed, the dead raised up, drink alike their Master's cup.

After the struggle, what joy to let go! To loose the frightened clutch, the nervous grip; To pull aside the curtain and look out Beyond the wall, beyond the strip Called ours—the measured plot: To leave the calendared computing mill Of getting and losing, To be still, To take in the view— Not really new— Beyond the tent restricted to a few, Held with tight cord to family stake. On right hand and on left The Word goes out: the barriers break.

Short of limb, but agile still, the publican Searched for a spot and found it in a sycamore, A vantage point above the heads of pressing crowd, From which to see and hear the one Who came teaching and preaching Christ. And as he climbed, greed fled the heights And restitution winged its way To where he was and rested there.

Paul just had to win. His heart, if not his hand, was pure from the start.

From the moment of her making us a family, And before—long, long before— It had been clear man has no human origin. Effortless for me to shed the notion Of genealogy, a tree, a line of forebears Proud of stock and famed of name.

How freely does the Arctic tern Fly southward each returning fall That it may heed Antarctic's call, Eleven thousand miles in all! And always on the spring's return The beauteous creature knows it wants To rear its young in Arctic haunts; Disdains the dangers of such jaunts. If birds fly thus without concern, Is there less hope for humankind? Shall faultless action be defined In terms of matter or of Mind?

In depth men have discovered wealth untold; Wonders of ancient empires, oil springs, gold— A precious yield. In surface soil no treasure is revealed.