Poems

An ode of praise goes up to Thee From stream and brook, from hill and sea; The sun, the moon, the stars, the light— All witness to Thy wisdom's might. The kindly deeds, the helping hand, The rain that falls on thirsty land, The child's pure joys, without a care, Show Love's dear mercies everywhere.

Truth speaks to us across the ocean waste; Love at the helm will guide us through the storm. Mind, by its clear enlightenment and strength, Scatters illusions and reveals the dawn.

A crown ! May this triumphant hour Wherein brave victory Securely rests her diadem On brow long unadorned, May this, Truth's well-earned hour, Prevailing over error's subtlety, Be seasoned thoroughly With unfeigned meekness, pure humility. A backward veering, glance to left or right, Revealed a slight unsteadiness When first I thought this crown so sure—secure.

Supply is unlimited abundance of good, Available to everyone here and now, Divinely perceived through spiritual understanding, Humanly expressed by obedience to Principle. The bread of Truth, the water of Life, The garment of righteousness, is man's by reflection.

The universe of God is not beyond Our present comprehension. Love's vast plan Awaits our clearer view of that firm bond Which binds eternal good and spiritual man.

The meek, equipped by Mind With innocence, will find The Saviour's might. Their heritage of power Prevails in every hour Through sure insight, Enabling them to share The load that others bear And prove it light.

Violets in a woodland glade Bespeak the burgeoning spring When, rapidly or long delayed, Joy comes to everything. From desert heath to forest tree Each has its hour of praise, Prepared for well and patiently Through stormy winter days.

He said, "I have found Truth. " And his friends asked him: "Where is it then? In the Word?" And he answered them: "Yes.

Whole , joyous, free, the real man never dwells In dreams of sickness, sorrow, sin, or crime, Nor lives imprisoned in material cells, A captive selfhood serving sense and time. When good is proved the real, the sick are healed; And freed from self, the sinning are forgiven.

" Too long," I cried, "I cannot carry on; 'Is there no balm in Gilead' for me?" Soft as a morning beam, the answer came: A little bud without a sign of bloom awakened sweet, angelic thoughts. I mused: Impatient probing will not bring to view the velvet petals or their rosy hue, nor stir untimely fragrance.