Poems

A prophet's blessing, who shall earn it? A prophet's vision, who shall discern it? A prophet's mission, who shall turn it back? Who are the space age prophets? They who, Spirit-based, look out from Infinity upon the infinite, their eyes envisioning new dimensions, boundless possibilities; they who forsake their comfortable grooves of thought to follow Christ, obedient, alert to every guiding touch of Truth. These walk by faith; they are the spiritual adventurers.

In the green pastures of my Lord We walk as one. To my appealing For comfort, lo, His tender Word Brings truth's sure healing.

Restless within the ark, shelter divinely provided, I longed for wider space, but the waters had not subsided; the struggle with self went on, though the rain had stopped, and above the sun already shone. The rainbow was still to come.

There is a comfort in the quiet releasing Of cherished aims, to make way for His plan; There is a wondrous peace which comes from climbing Up to the holy place where God sees man. There is a power that lifts the weary seeker Over the mist and into Spirit's light, Into the realm where thought may safely ponder How to obey that tender, healing might.

Thy will, not mine, be done— here was essential prayer wherein clear Christ awareness filled with light the garden of despair. Here too the sweat of self-denial stilled with blood the urgent plea: "Remove this cup from me.

Stone other sculptors rejected, Michelangelo took and struck his towering David. So metaphorically, Jesus took Truth's cornerstone, spurned by blind Pharisee, and built his church on Christ-healing that, metaphysically, we may use that cornerstone, raising up Church among men by proving through accurate prayer Christ-healing again!

There is a plan for every man, A pathway bright with glory; And we may tread where Jesus led; Death does not end the story. There is a way that day by day Leads on through pastures vernal, A purpose clear, a presence near, And this is life eternal.

Teach me, Father, how to turn thought away from self today. Those who listen spread Love's Word, surely witness sin cast out, lepers cleansed, the dead raised up, drink alike their Master's cup.

After the struggle, what joy to let go! To loose the frightened clutch, the nervous grip; To pull aside the curtain and look out Beyond the wall, beyond the strip Called ours—the measured plot: To leave the calendared computing mill Of getting and losing, To be still, To take in the view— Not really new— Beyond the tent restricted to a few, Held with tight cord to family stake. On right hand and on left The Word goes out: the barriers break.

Short of limb, but agile still, the publican Searched for a spot and found it in a sycamore, A vantage point above the heads of pressing crowd, From which to see and hear the one Who came teaching and preaching Christ. And as he climbed, greed fled the heights And restitution winged its way To where he was and rested there.