Poems

When thought becomes a desert, scorched and dry, With no clear streams of love for thirsty sand, No singing lark will spiral to the sky And no embroidering blossoms trim the land. Where selfishness has sapped once-fruitful loam And spread its cactus to the canyon's brink, No little dove will light to build its home And no shy doe will come for food and drink.

Only our outward senses touch the griefs, mark the sad sequences of suffering and sin and death. They watch the wars, and hear the sound of weeping; they smell corruption, taste the bitter cup.

Come, turning, waking April earth, rejoice with me in Life's own season! No shuttle days go back and forth in vain from Mind to mortal reason. Spirit's steady zenith brings the radically radiant hour when I discern the secret springs in rocks, and wilderness is flower.

Deep in the gloom the torches glowed, In the evening hour; We grew to perceive a candle flame, A flickering oil wick, Then the arc lamp's modest power. Steadier now, and brighter far, Vision leaps to the nearest star.

Was the promise made to Abraham alone? —Seeing thou "hast not withheld thy son— In thy seed shall all the nations of the earth Be blessed; because thou hast obeyed my voice. " Did Abraham resist God's first demand To sacrifice his son on Mount Moriah? Did his feet stumble on the upward journey, Did his hand falter at the altar's fire, Would his voice fail at the familiar—Isaac? Could the knife cut the life from his despair? What Mind could father such obedience? Was it the mind of Abraham alone? Did the command, "Lay not thine hand upon the lad," Release in him a spurious contentment? Did his call—Isaac—ring with repossession? No.

"In self we trust," my motto was; My coin, philosophy. My citadel, pure reason's shell, My pearl, the knowledge tree.

"Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water. " No need to hesitate, or wait; with instant loving sanction favoring obedient adventure, Master bade follower, "Come.

No Niagara now, nor pistoned power nor politics provides us enough light to walk, unmolested, Main Street's night infested with forked hates and fears. The hour is ominous.

From the East there came Wisemen to honor one in Bethlehem. Symbolic starlight beamed and pointed where to find him, God's anointed.

Yes, I said I would follow him, Follow wherever he would guide: From Jordan's brink to the wilderness, From there to Galilee's shimmering side; Or up from the sea to a mountaintop To hear his sermon in the soft, sweet breeze; Then through the cities and villages Teaching and healing every disease; Or giving food to the multitude, Or walking across the sea at night, Or on the mountain where he stood Transfigured in immortal light. But into Judea? to Jerusalem? To face the scribes and the Pharisees? Into the temple to whip out the thieves? Should I be willing to face all these? And would I sit at the sad Last Supper And follow him out to Gethsemane, Or go with him into Pilate's court, Or carry the cross to Calvary? Should I be willing to follow him To the tomb itself, if such need be? To the garden bathed in Easter light, To the mount of ascent in Galilee? How can I know how far I would go, How well in his footsteps I would stay, Except I begin to follow him now In my thoughts, in my life, and to walk in his way? Max Dunaway.