Poems

Where is home? Is it lost in the heart's sad memory, a sanctuary taken by material change? Can you damage it, abuse it, lose it— or can it be seen indestructible? I had a house, sunny and glad, that then was shaken, taken out of helpless human hands. But I found a promise there, beautifully guarded.

I hear the song of Soul. A quiet phrase, so pure and clear, above all earthly noise, stirs my slumbering sense and points to higher ways.

Our God was at our side by night and day, shelt'ring, giving, loving, night and day He'd made a covenant with us; which covenant we broke, though better husband simply can't be found. We played the harlot; yet He cried, "Return again to Me!" There's promise that our city shall be made of sapphires, agates—gems with colors fair, and great shall be the peace of children there.

"Jesus knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, .

God's day is a perfect day! No pressure, fearing, limitation Can claim my path, to say Unto me I am joyless, Without God. Such a perfect day ! Beginning with prayer Wings my morning upward Past song, sermon—heavenward.

It's a parable, a short, simple story to teach lessons: What real neighbors are and aren't; Showing the right way to live through good deeds; Hinting the way to eternal Life through spiritual affection and Awareness of man's true nature as God's child, Far from self-satisfaction, pride, and show. Might it also be a parable about the traveler? Not just an innocent man mercilessly mugged, abandoned.

Like the prophets Of old I will say of the Lord: He is my heritage Of freedom Everywhere My dominion Over error And every bit Of material sense That would prevent me From seeing God All that is real And the glories Of His Gentle making And My eternal Selfhood.

Attracted by Love, not human goodness, they come. Taught by Principle, not personality, they stay.

If, at this date in life, I can, with some semblance of grace, Throw light upon the path Of fellow travelers, Or bring the balm of healing To some aching hearts or limbs; If only I may assuage some grief, Revive some dying dream— Dear God, that's all I ask. You know no time or limitation, No lessening of the animus divine, No dimming sight or faintness of perception, No coldness, hardness, dulling the sublime.

The crying women saw a cross And on it, all their love and loss. They saw their Lord in empty cave, No tomb of Life but death's own grave.