"The mounting sense gathers fresh forms and strange fire from the ashes of dissolving self, and drops the world."—Miscellaneous Writings by Mary Baker Eddy (p. 1.)
On the housetop, alone,
And close to the sky,
I gather bits of heaven slowly floating by,
Sweeping from before me,
As a featherweight,
All human pride and anger, fearfulness and hate.
Gladly I surrender,
Awakened—full-fed;
My hand in His, I follow and mount where angels tread.
