Poems

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.

In weariness I turned to one Whose thought climbs high. She said: Don't struggle so, You're one with God , let go And rest upon the power of present Love As vessels float upon the sea Supported, in innocence, effortlessly.

After her first visit to the Sunday School, A tiny child said, "I sat still for a very long time. " That was all.

The way out of prison—any prison? Consider Joseph: sold by his own brothers into slavery; then falsely accused by others; victim of thwarted passion. Calumny accepted.

How Peter, the impulsive, loved his Lord! Adored him with a finite sense of love; He said he would lay down his life for him, And meant it, at the time, with all his heart. At other times he rose to heights sublime; And Jesus said that he would build his Church Upon the Rock—the truth that Peter voiced: "Thou art the Christ," he said, "the Son of God"! But Peter's love could not withstand the test.

Tutankhamen, nineteen, Pharaoh for three thousand years over darkness, over his untouched tomb uncovered by chance by Carter, archaeologist, exposing unsung an era in faience obsidian onyx gold, inanimates animating culture and karma, the lotiform wishing cup chanting still through alabaster: "Live, O King! Live, live, thy Ka. " But no wind yet has stirred to dance these bones.

Sometimes we bury, or we lay away, Our hope of healing while discouragement Seals fast the sepulcher and brings dismay, With hints that useless efforts have been spent. We doubt that we can move the massive stone And feel we lack the strength that prayers command, Forgetting that we do not work alone And that the risen Saviour is at hand.

True joy is now. One asks, But how? I am without.

Be David! Bide your time in the fields. Before now, harp-song has exorcised more than ghosts troubling a king.

Genuine humility— gentle grace— we find in an awareness of our need for Christlike meekness to concede that all true ability has its source in Mind. This vital quality—innate in the lowly Master—made him great.