Poems

I'd gone fishing for healing, Took great bait along, Armed myself with books and references, And threw out the nets. Nothing.

What do I sacrifice when I praise? When, with joy-packed voice, I raise my thoughts, my love, my life? Why, the sacrifice is this: give up gloom for bliss give up wrong for right give up dark for light. (Oh, give up , mortality! You can give me nothing, so turn yourself in— sickness, sorrow, sin.

Repetition has not (somehow I think you'll agree) the variety of Soul, the uplift of Spirit's buoyancy— is not a spiral of continuous ascending, but only a (vicious) circle. It is the recurrent resort of the hypnotist, like the catchy phrase from a commercial echoing in thought till any association with the original content is lost.

I hear a language of infinite caring. Words that are acts— small deeds shaped softly out of the heart of Love.

"Who goes there?" Subtle suggestion, Mortal complaint Demand admission. Enlightened thought (the sentry) Watching/waiting Bars the way.

Open your ears—that you may hear His Word. Open your eyes—that you may see His creation.

A young man fell in love, But he was only dreaming. And, in his dream, love unreturned Produced a deeper dreaming: An old man all alone, In solitary sadness, Dreamed no one there to fill his hunger With the wheat of gladness.

I see progress in so many little ways, The chastened motive, the quiet Godward gaze. A slower pace my footsteps find— A redemptive life, a regenerated mind.

Dear member, You and I look across from opposite sides of the fence. We see things from different places.

That living cross! Great rugged stirring stick, Bring fire and purpose into my heart, Stir the too-long-buried thrill, Open me wide to that wave of love (To make those empty dull thoughts come alive— No trickle charge but a surge of new awe so strong That it stretches my thought to prophetic vision)! May I never be found standing still But living the Christ's way as never before, With its hymn of praise sung by those who are called — Astonished by His gifts, humbled by His power, Always to hear that beat and obey Despite the hurling stones. Make me leap to apostle-like prayers.