Poems

Sunfalls of dim mortal belief would cast deepening shadows across the pages of our passage— We must lift them higher into the light of the morning star to read our homeward way! Paul Edward Gingell.

When we self-center our lives, we absent ourselves from humanity. We are alone, invisible in proportion to our selfishness.

Misunderstandings bitter tears excuses, fears crumble on the table of the unselfed heart.

God's truth flashes before us, and we are transformed— more godly than before. We are given only what we can bear— Moses saw a burning bush, Paul was flooded with the light.

I'm learning we can escape the confines of these eyes and ears and erase the dossier of limitations and fears they've compiled in self-consciousness— even reverse the fatal conviction based on it. The key: like sunlight and sun, man and God are ever at one.

Despite all prejudice, defeat, despair, self-abandonment, forgotten care, in spite of every storm and snare of sense— even the very least approximates a full one-millionth part of excellence— enough to shatter every bolted door, enough to triumph now and evermore. Then how much greater joy when we are told in many untold ways and unmistakably: You are you.

Invited to the feast each day, some guests may still be hesitant. "It's hard to understand.

It's communion time— My favorite time— A common-ground level, With no one above another. Thoughts touch in ripstop stillness, And the grace-grade is high.

In closet of thought, reading by morning light.

There's something in you that never strikes back, that lets you bend under the blow and come gently upright; something in you that draws out laughter here within earshot of complaint; something that's letting sweetness through the shadow of sarcasm; something in you whose grace is tact in the face of spite; something that doesn't end.