Poems

All is quiet in Gethsemane this evening, except the knot of men gathering in a dark corner of the olive garden. Even Peter is napping, unable to face the warning of pending events.

Dear Father, Today I discovered something: I am in the practice— the practice of bearing witness to Your allness. The practice of prayers, which acknowledge with great gratitude all that You bestow on Your idea, man.

Your Wednesday testimony meetings—you say they aren't well attended? The same ones testify all the time, while others sit and never say a word—week after week? Be grateful for each one's presence! Cherish it. Love it.

What if I fling free from crumbling ledge of mortality? What if I lift off into space, filled with Soul's embrace? What if I soar above the floor of earthling fear? Old world-weights shed by Love's wingspread guiding, I'm gliding to lasting landing: I'm standing sound, on holy ground .

This is Your Word, dear God—not mine; I am but letting Your light shine. Your Word that never returns to You void— by this Word I am held, supported, buoyed.

Remember how they brought her to the temple Where he taught, and how they presented her Asking if she should be stoned? Remember how he, Quickly, silently, wrote something in the dust ("Accuser," "accused," perhaps—rebuking lack Of moral courage, self-righteousness, a score Of other sins)? Which of us today Commits adultery? Dilutes the pure Christ sense Of perfect man (ourselves or others)? Will we Stone ourselves? Or others? Or will we write All sins upon the ground, and then stand free— Stay free—rising in sinless sonship, chastened And always loved, thanking God for His Forgiveness of accuser and accused? PAUL S. SEDAN.

This hour every hour His covenant demands our steady jettison of Adam/Eve refrain— in return Love's lineage, in response Love's name. CAROL J.

That it may be a candle flame to light this time and place, it dare not yearn to blaze the sky, but glow with thankful grace. That it may be a trusty bridge to join the old to new by city's roar, or hamlet shore, dear God, please hold its timbers true.

If God were vengeful, I had been Long since struck down. Yet here I stand, to watch The mists of sinful sense disperse Before the splendor of His Word, His face.

The prodigal in me seeks The Father's loving care, But the elder son in me rebels And says it is not fair. Then Truth opens wide my eyes.