Poems

Two men went up to the temple About the hour of prayer; One spoke to his heavenly Father, One to the ambient air. Two men came back from the temple, And each had what he sought: One stood absolved in God's clear sight, And one in his own proud thought.

Poor little black sheep? What little black sheep? I who see all from above, I who neither slumber nor sleep— Shall any escape from My love? No little black sheep. No little lost sheep.

Impossible —so the disciples thought— To feed the hungry thousands waiting there! Five loaves and two small fishes were as naught, Even among themselves, much less to share With all the others. Only Jesus knew They were enough for everyone, and more.

Be still, O restless heart, be still; O yield all sense of hurt and woe. Lay down your burden of self-will; "Be still, and know.

When Jesus did his mighty works On the shores of Galilee, The touch of Truth was all it took— With lifted hand and loving look— To make men whole and free. The blind men saw, the deaf ones heard; Up rose the halt and lame.

Does Mind cease being Mind for these few years? Can joy and gladness terminate in tears? Or youthful trust be goaded to rebel? If any son or daughter seems to be Repudiating Love's immediacy, Let Truth's resplendent shining break the spell. Oh, let me answer through the darkest night, With certain faith, as did the Shunammite, "Yes, it is well, dear Father, it is well.

What is man? and who am I? Knee tall to cricket? High as sky? Blessed to live or doomed to die? What is man? and who am I? I stand star-struck on earth and look At all that space includes; I realize (though not with eyes) I stand where naught intrudes; For inner space is broader far Than hearing, seeing, feeling are. (The greatest space is solitude.

Heavy to bear, this burden of my own making. What other is there? Where were You, Father, when heaven forsaking— Earth-scene looked fair— I wandered witless in delusive light Believing it my own? Until I had to turn and face my night, Such hurt before unknown.

A voice is crying in the wilderness. Hark! Hark! How faintly heard it is by some; By others not at all! Divine duress Is lost in trade and market place and home.

She poured the precious ointment on his feet, Adoring, wiped them with her hair. Fragrance of spikenard filled the house And graced that feast at Bethany.