Poems

Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani? which is, being interpreted, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Mark 15:34 I thought his lips winced with that hollow cry. It tore my heart, and as a crushing weight black grief pressed down across the faded sky.

Standing here like this, on a rough hillside in morning sun with Tiberias that way, at the lake's edge, and below, to my left, the few bleached columns of a Capernaum that is now no more than a dream glimmering brokenly in its fragile shade, I see—suddenly— Not a decorous congregation arranged in rows, and wearing Sunday instead of Everyday clothes! With altar; and ritual; and walls raised up, great stone upon stone, to separate and enclose. O nothing—nothing like that, at all! For here really here not embalmed in a tale! somebody daily walked about.

They stand, but not because, of old,     A prophet tuned his inner hearing Into eternity, and heard. They hold     Steady against the windy veering     Of ancient sin and modern sneering— The golden calf, the yellow press—     Simply because, diverse, cohering, They are the rules of happiness.

"Master, where dwellest thou?" The Master's quick response to this direct inquiry was the Christly invitation, "Come and see. " As if he had said— implicitly, "If you would discern true consciousness, man's spiritual habitation, follow me.

I have loved the moon and watched, enchanted, To see man set his foot upon her surface, Stand etched in brilliant light, Gather her treasures, then come back to earth, Leaving her echoing for a space of time. And I would pattern that triumphant journey, Break from the gravity of mortal mind, Rise weightless through immeasurable realms Of Spirit, Scale Mind's peaks, Stand fast upon the rock of Principle Reflecting dazzling light of Life and Love, Gather the priceless, changeless things of Soul, And hear Truth's ringing and majestic tones Echoing, echoing, echoing in my heart, Across the dream of time Into eternity.

Jacob told Pharaoh, "Few and evil Have the days of the years of my life been.

Celebrated victory from distant past— the summoning of courage for a cause when Gideon rose in strength after pause of prayer. The spirit of the Lord came upon him.

Let peace begin with me. Let my eyes always see man as he was made to be "in the beginning.

He left, that day, for the world's sharp cold— no money, no work, feet poorly shod, coat frayed—oh, my child! He was not very old, but he had his hand in the hand of God! I trusted my Father, and watched from afar: saw my child fall in tunnels, and love his way through, master temptations, triumph in war; then, turn loose God's hand! Oh, keenly I knew I had grown vain—proud of my son who was actually God's ! How I prayed to renew my own grip on God—leave nothing undone of the work that He gave me daily to do! I loved—loved—loved! And one day I heard my son to his own child earnestly preaching: "Whatever the odds, keep your hand in God's, and your heart in accord with our Master's teaching!" Althea Brooks Hollenbeck.

Is it such a little thing, or so hard, to trust God's love? Can I forget His goodness inflooding to the center, outflowing to the rim and far beyond my known circumference? Such a little thing— to believe. Can it really move this mountain? Can it lay this ghost? Or must I dig its grave with pick and shovel, forgetting the grace of God.