Way beyond that unsure, impure blur that calls itself me,
Far outside that fearful, tearful self that seems to be
right
where
I am—
There is, in God's own sight, a very precious and
delightful child.
There is a very dear and happy one whose home, career,
and health are shining forth from Spirit's animus
of
All. There is a perfect whole, the uncut oneness between God and me,
which carries with it the blessed security
of peace within. (And peace without.)
Peace without self-condemnation's war.
Peace. Without mortal smallness pounding at the door
of thought, selling its junk: frustrated annoyance,
impatient criticism,
unfairness by the bushel. "All," it hollers, "just for you!"
Perhaps I've bought it before,
but I won't anymore.
The true-idea me that I see lives not just beyond
outside,
above,
but in place of the mortal dream of erring sense. The Father's love for the Him/me bond
lifts me up and plays upon my heart's own harp
an angel chorus song of joy, strength, health:
"Oh, how I love my perfect self!"
