Poems

Once upon a day, in my youthful naiveté, I followed a flock of sheep— and lost my way. I didn't realize then that sheep without a shepherd are apt to go astray and thus become the lion's prey.

Will you be a follower, Letting God lead, Always listening With faith to heed? Will you be a follower Of Jesus, His Son, With faith to walk uncharted paths As he has done? Will you be a follower With your Leader, Mrs. Eddy, Joyously, faithfully, Sandals on.

Yes, I worked with the possibility (And others worked with me) Of self-subordination, Putting off "the old man" Even the quiet giving up Of oversought glory of award/reward. Sounds great! It's not so bad: maybe I can demonstrate this more fully As my understanding grows— Little by little— Some day.

Just when the challenge seems too heavy to continue, right then the light brightens and I suddenly see Life is eternal. And all that's really happening is proof absolute of Love's "I am always here, inseparably irrevocably linked with man—with you, My perfect, beloved child.

As this, or other newer praises, resounds from the most sincere corner of my heart, I can find—behind elation— a tender, ever-present relation: God and man at one. Such hosannas, never done, show me Love's creation through Spirit-celebration.

Free to soar, you're dear to Him who holds the winds, controls the tides, calms the seas when they roar. To you He has given the sense divine that you be fully fitted, safely fledged in Christ, flight-fixed for heaven.

Did anybody notice the light in his eye the love on his face when they stoned him— this gallant man Stephen? Or did they just see the mud on his robe, the blood on his brow? Did somebody notice that in his agony he spoke not of pain nor of treachery but of forgiveness? "Lord," he cried, "lay not this sin to their charge. " That selfless, Christly spirit never died and never will.

God is man's source. In no mortal "I am" does man inhere, But in timeless, tireless Being man is conceived — God's immortal heir! No Adam-dream originates man: His source is conscious Life; perfection the Father's command.

In the evening of His peace and rest I weed the pasture clear of stubborn unreality. Truth, the implement, digs down deep to turn up stalk and root — seen and unseen tare.

Stand erect in goodness Your thought filled with Spirit's light See all who enter as the child of God Perfect—complete—upright. HOWARD ALLEN ROSS.