Even Pilate's men forbore to rend
Christ's seamless robe, so finely wrought
And woven with inspired
Consistency.
If we would also be thus radiantly
Attired,
Then we must strive to fashion of our thought
A Christly vesture pure, of seven-hued white,
Woven throughout with shining threads of Truth's
Clear light.
Each strand on wisdom's distaff spun
With patient care,
A holy garment fit for God's own son
To wear.
A robe embroidered with Life's loveliness
And grace,
In tranquil patterns of unworldliness
And peace,
Of Mind's design.
Each stitch with Principle's precision wrought,
Soul's harmonies, like hues of rainbow caught
Within its folds
Of Spirit's immateriality
And Love's sweet care.
A robe of highest, Godlike quality,
Most rare.
Then as we walk through throng and press of earth,
Even the skeptic will perceive its worth,
And will commend it;
Even jealousy's sharp thrusts of hate will
Powerless be to rend it;
Even the most timorous of heart that
Ventures near in mute appeal
Will find its touch gentle as brush of bird's
Soft wing
And comforting.
A seamless robe endued with Christ's own power
To heal.
