Poems

Is this an instrument to soothe the congregation with timid tremolo and shimmering pianissimo— an instrument to encourage passivity with pleasant but commonplace compositions? Surely this is an instrument designed for great music with its orchestra of voices— an instrument to proclaim God's majesty in sonorous tones. Can we be lethargic when it stirs us to glory— when its multicolored stops now dulcet, now piercing, hint the infinite variety of the music of those morning stars which sang together in the beginning? Can we nestle back in smugness? Are we not rather roused to gratitude and praise? Oh, let the organ's flute-tones soft-pearled reveal the purity of the Word.

It's out there someplace waiting for me— I must go now and find it. Is this the one? So tall, so good to look upon? It's true—I do have my ideals and inner rules.

O these Goliaths! swaggering and bragging as they issue from their fastness. The insolence of them! The hullabaloo created! With all that brassy dazzle on the air— of breastplate, helmet, and drawn sword brandished to defy high heaven—cowing even the hardiest of hosts: even kings and priests above the valley of Elah.

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.

man the effect of God the cause from wells of Mind his knowing draws and knows no thirsting wilderness, but fresh and joyful loves to bless man true to Love by Truth's own laws, unstopped as Life, lives without stress man's will, God's tireless willingness; man gives his all—because Mary Cohn.

Listen, God, what are we going to do? Everything has become so complicated! We need to know You as mightier than every sovereign power, stronger than any nuclear thrust, more abundant than any human dole. Although there are no big wars, giant nations glare at each other behind the battle lines of smaller neighbors.

Like those who were present there in Troas I, too, am "not a little comforted" 1 by what was granted          to the young man Eutychus. For fancy dozing off the way he did! Then tumbling, sensationally, from an upper room while Paul—that eloquent mentor of theirs— was pouring out to them before he left all that he must have had to give          of counsel and encouragement for the days ahead.

There is an inner city coming; I see its form evolving and its purpose, and it is to be called man. Citadel man.

It seemed to his friends that Simon had become a hard man, No longer ready to fish with them—all involved with his new religion. They may have called him fanatical.

Straight, straight to You, Father, like the flight of a bird, go my waking thoughts. Swift, now will I stablish the essential pattern for the emerging day.