It's Sunday morning. This hour is born of prayer.
Father-Mother Mind, I know it's not
our thinking, no, but all
Your own dear knowing that agelessly embraces us.
There are no shadows where Your precepts are;
no dream to come between ideas,
to slur the words of the impersonal pastor.Miscellaneous Writings by Mrs. Eddy, p. 322.
Understanding hangs in the waiting thought
before I rise with the Second Reader here.
The impersonal pastor tears the veil, opens the sanctuary.
Through this sermon the very Word is handled:
the bread is broken, shared, the cup is taken.
For it is Christ that wings our listening,
that brings proof of the new covenant in our hearts
with each fresh rush of light.
We find our virginal consciousness.
It's Sunday morning. How many of us
were led to this service by something more
than duty or curiosity?
Of this I'm sure:
that in the hour the healing Christ
gently surprises
only the longing ear.
