A poet said the world is too much with us.
It presses on me in this burdened hour;
Whole continents in turmoil, people fleeing—
Real people, with hurts and heartaches, hopes and fears —
With animals and little babies; families
Fleeing to no safety from unknown evil power.
The world is too much with us in this hour?
Would I have it less so? Turn away?
My own small life so far is undisturbed,
Office and home provide a neat retreat.
Things are different, perhaps more difficult,
But not as yet upheaved beyond control.
"It cannot happen here," we say.
"Switch off the radio. Turn off television.
Live in the now of pleasant work and play."
No, I'd rather the world smother me quite;
Feel its unmothered hunger than not feel at all.
But there's another course:
Christ Jesus said
That those who believe on him will do his works,
And greater works even than his.
What "greater works"?
He raised the dead, redeemed prostitutes, fed thousands.
What "greater works"? Could it even be,
Believing him, we utilize the law
Which, healing individuals, heals a world,
Hastens the day of universal loving,
Untangles sorry, fear-fragmented living,
And brings to earth a rainbow glow of heaven?
World, be much with me, I with you;
One God, one Mind, Love's law is with us all.
