Poems

O never cock would crow but he would see His Master's face as he denied him thrice; That brooding look which seemed so tenderly To say, O Peter, Peter, what a price You pay for your impulsiveness! Could fast Or tears of penitence redeem the past? At dawn, on that third day near Calvary, Did troubled Peter stride, remembering Each highlight of his Lord's brief ministry, Seeking for that to which his need must cling, Some memory to ease the nagging loss And answer the enigma of the cross? There was that first proud day when Jesus turned And gazing on them said, "Come—follow me. And ye shall fish for men.

Shall I think pain, Or shall I think gladness, Sing heaven's refrain, Or weep in earth's sadness? Shall I think fear Or go forward singing, Finding God here, All happiness bringing? I can yield to my fright In abject surrender Or look toward the light And walk in its splendor.

They were on the way to Emmaus— a small village, not too far from Jerusalem. They were grief-stricken travelers, saddened by the crucifixion of only a few days before.

A fogbound shore, a lonely bird, and I— all else obscured beneath a leaden sky. Ignoring foam spray from incoming tide, the sea gull walked sedately at my side disconsolate (not as a bird should be); and I, alas, disconsolate as he.

The kingdom of heaven is not silent. As our mortal sense becomes quiet and still, Then sweeter by far than a thousand choirs, The voice of harmony, echoing God's will, Consoling, commanding, inspires.

How substanceless the ocean Peter trod With faithless doubt, in wind-tossed dark: He sought the Christ outside himself And sank! How unsupporting, wavering, weak, The place whereon I stand, If I believe that Truth's afar And seek the Christ remote, apart! But Jesus, inly calm and buoyed by Truth, Outshone the outside world Of white-crest wave and liquid shock And frightened, shaking ship; He showed the way to Peter, as to us: He walked on ocean firm as rock.

I gave my mite content to know that all I had was wanted. The little light, the simple word, though trivial to many, counted.

All night my heart has held new-feathered words, Deep-nested, not yet strong enough for flight, But, pushing upward like small winging birds, They seek their freedom in the morning light. My lips must be made ready with the curve That love imparts to send words forth at length With tone of voice empowered to preserve Their innate grace and God-provided strength.

When Jesus prayed, his prayers included all. "Neither pray I for these alone," he said; his love was universal, not a small measure for a chosen few.

The first time you didn't know what to do. It was in London, and she was a pianist with something of an international reputation.