Poems

How wonderful divine Love is—to make the earth so fair With buds of fragrant foliage on trees that once were bare! I sit—aware of loveliness, God's presence all around, The gentle lap of water and the birds the only sound. And as I journey down the road that leads to all perfection, I know that I shall always have the peace of God's protection.

Dear Father, teach me how to go In strict accord with Thy direction So that when I move fast or slow The pace is Thy selection. Sometimes self-will has pushed with force, Or apathy has slowed my going.

Christmas is a time when we remember a star-crowned stable and the glory of humility: when we recall that there is wonder in the grace of being able to live in peace: and that there is gentility in meekness. Christmas is a time when we remember the shepherds' story and the depth of its sincerity; and by a stall we see earth's kings and powers in grateful reverence bending, in witness of Love's reign over severity and weakness.

Grief took me to the valley; I saw the sons of man Bewildered, restless, burdened, with neither hope nor plan. Deep-shadowed lay the valley, the path beset with fears.

O never cock would crow but he would see His Master's face as he denied him thrice; That brooding look which seemed so tenderly To say, O Peter, Peter, what a price You pay for your impulsiveness! Could fast Or tears of penitence redeem the past? At dawn, on that third day near Calvary, Did troubled Peter stride, remembering Each highlight of his Lord's brief ministry, Seeking for that to which his need must cling, Some memory to ease the nagging loss And answer the enigma of the cross? There was that first proud day when Jesus turned And gazing on them said, "Come—follow me. And ye shall fish for men.

Shall I think pain, Or shall I think gladness, Sing heaven's refrain, Or weep in earth's sadness? Shall I think fear Or go forward singing, Finding God here, All happiness bringing? I can yield to my fright In abject surrender Or look toward the light And walk in its splendor.

They were on the way to Emmaus— a small village, not too far from Jerusalem. They were grief-stricken travelers, saddened by the crucifixion of only a few days before.

A fogbound shore, a lonely bird, and I— all else obscured beneath a leaden sky. Ignoring foam spray from incoming tide, the sea gull walked sedately at my side disconsolate (not as a bird should be); and I, alas, disconsolate as he.

The kingdom of heaven is not silent. As our mortal sense becomes quiet and still, Then sweeter by far than a thousand choirs, The voice of harmony, echoing God's will, Consoling, commanding, inspires.

How substanceless the ocean Peter trod With faithless doubt, in wind-tossed dark: He sought the Christ outside himself And sank! How unsupporting, wavering, weak, The place whereon I stand, If I believe that Truth's afar And seek the Christ remote, apart! But Jesus, inly calm and buoyed by Truth, Outshone the outside world Of white-crest wave and liquid shock And frightened, shaking ship; He showed the way to Peter, as to us: He walked on ocean firm as rock.