Poems

The purest sense of Truth is crystal clear; It shines within the gentle, childlike mind. While complicated theories leave men blind, The simple thought can know that God is near.

You ask what makes me glad To be alive? What sun Or star or kind of friend, Or shape of thing to come, Is wellspring of my joy? No, Thomas. None of these.

How kind the grass has been To my wayfaring feet; How often have the flowers Refreshed with fragrance sweet, The great rock shelter given, The sunshine cheered my way— And yet how often I Have, thankless, gone my way. And will the grass then be Less kind unto my feet, The sun refuse to shine, The flowers withhold their sweet? And, wherefore, should I say— When friends unfaithful prove, Ungrateful or unkind— "I will no longer love"? We have no power to change Man's God-appointed role, More than sun, rock, or flower Their part in the great whole.

The sculptor learns to see and trace Beneath the accidents of mood The salient character of face, The underlying certitude, And fashions for essential norm A bold integrity of form. The engineer and architect Conform the slant of every line To poised proportion and reject, As opposite to their design, The vagrancy of every flaw Which thwarts the unity of law.

Jesus was seen by the light of morning, But in the night came resurrection. There in the thickness of the gloom That filled the solemn, silent tomb He proved eternal man's perfection.

All that he owned he sold to buy One pearl of priceless worth, This merchantman whose treasures were The riches of the earth. "Better the one," he reasoned thus, "Greater than all the rest, Better the one than the many," he said, "When that one is the best.

Do countless cares and duties cram Your days, a dull relentless grind, And yet, for all your faithfulness, Bear meager fruit and with frustration Fill your mind? Then look about you and consider well The promise of all nature's loveliness, And watch how God unveils to you His mode of work. If you would make your life complete, Let go the stress And pause at times to see A tremulous harebell flowering at your feet Or, hidden in long grass, pure sparkling rills, And after storms maybe A double rainbow arching wooded hills.

In the words of the young man whom Jesus met. She too asked: "Lord, 'what lack I yet?' What do I need to heal this case And error's picture to erase? Do I need more humility, More meekness, and less vanity? Lack I still yet a motive pure, A little faith that will endure? Is it more gratitude I need, More honesty of thought and deed? What is my need, all else above?" The answer came, "To love, to love!".

I come from night's deep cavern with old dreams Like strands of cobweb clinging to my thought. On towards the light I climb, past morning beams.

How often do we lend a hand To a precious little lamb in need Of help along the treacherous path. But do we often stop to heed The bleating call of older sheep Which we pass along the way, Or near a threatening precipice? We should lead those gone astray Into the arms of Love again.