Poems

Do not go weeping to the harvest field, The tasks our Father gives are pleasant tasks; How grand the victory, how sure the yield, When each, upon his work, God's blessing asks. Oh, hear and heed the Father's loving call: "Come, work within My harvest field today.

Where the unfolding lily leans And sweet the bud swings low, Substance illumed, their blossoms shine Pure in lucidity of line. Petal and essence gleam divine, One root, one sap, one bough.

Today I have patterned the house of my thought On a concept so small I feel prisoned therein. The walls are too close, and there's no joy in singing If selfishness sends back an echoing din.

A child , seeking comfort, to his parents' arms will turn With open heart and ready thought, to listen and to learn. With purity untouched by grief, from vain illusion free, He hears assurances of love with receptivity.

Dear Love, hallow this house which Thou hast built— The windows of our eyes that we may see The ever wider visions that Thou wilt Unfold, man and creation one with Thee. Hallow its rock, the firmness of our stand In Truth, its ample doorways, symbols of Our open arms and of each outstretched hand To welcome strangers, all Thy children, Love; Upon the altar of each humble heart Inscribe Thy name; forever dedicate Desires and will to see Thee as Thou art— Author and finisher on whom we wait.

Day after day I lay beside the gate called Beautiful, where I asked alms of men who came to pray. Now, I was lame from birth; and kindly friends, who daily laid me there, would question why I chose the temple gate and not the wayside or the market place, where I would surely reap much richer gain.

There is no mystery: the truth of being Was lived by Jesus so that we could see That knowing Truth bestows the living fountain From which Christ-healing springs eternally. It is not miracle: the quenchless Spirit Girds in eternal law the living way; The scope of Mind, illimitable, unfettered, Makes plain the open tomb at break of day.

Pressing unnoticed through the jostling crowd, She came behind the Master, confident That this, the promised one, was God-endowed To heal the sick and govern each event. Could she but touch his clothes! With groping hand She found his garment's hem; her only guide Her faith.

Dear Father-Mother, God, Thou madest me still, More still than the silent night. Thou madest me pure, Purer than noontide whiteness.

We need not plead with God to take away Our ills. But when we listen and are still, We hear the Father's voice.