Poems

Father, I'm ready to enter my closet, closing the door on things unlike prayer. This closet is consciousness, God-blessed and pure, wholly untroubled by cluttersome care.

Today, above all else, I love loving You and Your creation. I love glorifying You and bearing witness to You and only You! I love feeling Your love surrounding and caring for me and all mankind.

Neither suffering, pain, nor tears Exist in eternity But the clear consciousness Of a heart all humility. This heart cannot suffer from year succeeding year, From trials of time or other souvenir Of obsessive past or future never here Or even a regret of weakness far or near, But in hope rejoicing This heart finds its all In infinite ever-present Thou, Eternal now.

Once when I felt so compassed about with false witnesses, so battered and bruised by false accusations, I fell to my knees. Then I remembered that was a good attitude for prayer.

Why climb? I asked. Why the trouble— the boots, the parka, the pack— Why climb? And they said, The discovery.

As you grow up, grow out; Out of finite human ability into Infinite spiritual capability: Expressing, reflecting God, all good. Grow out of mortal sense and strife Into glowing, radiant, vibrant Life.

Thank you for this tiny little mustard seed of an hour, tucked into a week of seven days, one hundred sixty-eight hours. Yet this little hour fits in, sweetly, innocently.

"Which way from here? Oh yes, I know the land, Each hill and stone; but Whither now? Whence and why? WHERE AM I?" Holy ground. Put off thy shoes.

It was Sunday, and I had to sing once more, but no voice came. I thought of stuttering Moses, who wondered why he had been chosen; and of God, who said, "I will be with thy mouth, and teach thee.

I used to think nothing was more important than somewhere a poem was waiting. And then nothing was as important as love, and looking for it.