Poems

We are not infants fearful of the night. And all of us can witness now the birth Of fullest wisdom, for we are mature.

Another morning And the daylight cycles into a worker's eyes. Again his silent cry As thought projects him into business competition.

Launched into infinity, not space, Who can feel frustrated or alone In the great adventure, Promised support and "marrow" to the "bone"— Unfailing strength, with Mind to chart and trace Unerring course from sound and proven base? Clear through each barrier of sense, Breaking established records (for no speed Computable by instrument Could match that thinking rapider than deed) The traveler, assured of his defense, Thrills to explore the fathomless immense. Ready at zero signaling to leap And split the walled-up cubicle of sleep, To rocket forth and prove Unmeasurable the force, unchecked the sweep Of that resistless power, that ultimate deep— Of Love.

If in humility I turn to Thee For inspiration and vitality, Then is Thy holy Word a living thing, Filled with commands from Thee, my God and King. For yesterday these pages unillumed Seemed dark and colorless, and they assumed An aspect which to human sense was dull, But now I know that every word was full Of glowing messages for every need; Each individual problem had indeed An answer there complete; but to perceive The truth within each page I must receive Spiritual light, which lifts my thought above The human evidence and knows but Love.

Looking "through a glass, darkly" Epitomizes error's claim That worldliness and sensuality Only constitute reality. Looking through the lens of Spirit Mobilizes true conceptions, Shows our role as God's own child, Reveals existence undefiled.

Grace is not something far from where we are: a glimmering shore, across dark wastes of sea, or star fixed high from us in space, while we below, doomed to this dust, can do no more than strain with our eyes to stare at it—the sign perceived, the substance unpossessed. Grace is no thing apart like this.

The sixty miles of canyon walls are steep. In towers and peaks and battlements they rise.

Protected by Moses' law for the gleaner, Stranger and fatherless gleaning in Palestine Reached out for the olives Left at the top of an uppermost bough Or at the end of the widest-flung branch, Gratefully searched through leaves turned autumnal For scattered grapes missed by the gatherer's hand, And stooped humbly retrieving Grain shattered out of the harvest sheaves. May we, then, gleaning in Spirit's rich harvest, Patiently reach for the law hard to grasp, Gratefully search out the statute eluding us, Stoop humbly for some truth affronting our pride— Heartened the while by Love's ever-presence, Freely imparting the knowledge of all good.

Beloved , let us watch the morning come; See with what gentleness thin wands of light Disclose the sturdy features of earth's face, Probe every hidden stronghold of the night. Each dawn is promise of God's faithful love, Hallowing our hearts until we find In the luminous unfolding of His grace Truth's healing light enfolding all mankind.

My consciousness, like Hagar's, can remove From desert-burning drought to clearest source Of bubbling water, well of inspiration, To drink from, make my own, and know. Old fears Which have beleaguered me can rise and go, Banished forever by His host of angels: My city's sure defense, given in fiery Legions by my God.