Questions & Answers
Dear Lord, I do not ask for place or power Or wealth to satisfy an outward show. Void would be place that Thou didst not bestow; Power would be powerless every waiting hour Wert Thou not present constant grace to shower, Dispelling discontent, each phantom foe, Redeeming sense from erstwhile ebb and flow, To crave the wealth of Love, its only dower.
How oft in reverent thought we go Back to the shining little sea, Amid the hills that Jesus loved, In far-off Galilee. We see the glowing sunlit fields, Where lilies bloomed for him who trod, So patiently and lovingly, The pathway up to God.
I looked into Life's mirror clean, And met a vision long unseen: No error, no avenging rod, But just the loving smile of God!
The Master knew no earthly habitation But found his home in Spirit's restful realm. Thus on the mount of holy inspiration Or in the valley, naught could overwhelm His sense of shelt'ring love; with constant prayer He pierced earth's mist and saw God everywhere.
It is the gentle hand which feels the touch Of Love that waits to lead throughout the way; It is the listening ear which hears the voice Of Truth amid the noises of the day; It is the watchful eye which sees the Light — The guiding star that shines from out the gloom Oh, child of God, awake, arise, rejoice! Within thy Father's house is always room.
Some little dwelling, Lord, where I may rest From stress of error domiciled with Thee; Where, howsoever small or frail, my best To others may be giv'n ungrudgingly. Some gilded mansion claims me? Even there, Amid its pomp and unreality, I may then precious golden hours spare To cheer a brother's gloom and bide with Thee.
I must be certain of the living way, If I would lead the darkened sense To glorious day. I must prove life upon the path I tread If I would wake from dream of sense The hopeless dead.
Midst stress and toil of troubled days, Midst babbling tongues and traffic's roar, A golden thread runs through the maze Straight to a sweetly secret door, Where one may safely enter in And find repose from worldly din. The press of cares, which sometimes seem To make of hope a bitter mock, Here vanish with the Adam-dream And lose their vaunted claim to shock; While sorrow, sickness, and decay Upon its threshold turn away.
Prepare no altars in the places high; Let not vain incense rise unto the sky; Tell humbly thou the truth that maketh whole To seeking hearts, in gentle tones of Soul. The tide of error, surging on the shore Of sense, doth seem to lift its voice and roar; Yet Soul has but to whisper, soft and clear, And every waiting, listening heart doth hear.
Not in the earthquake or the wind Doth God, the Father, move and speak: The utterance of perfect Mind Comes in deep stillness to the meek And humble heart, that does but seek His perfect will and way to find. From God proceeds all, and returns To Him alone, reflected, free.