Poems

The finger writes again but not on stone; It writes on fleshy tables of the heart; And none today should wish to break his own Or the world's heart and crave another start. The finger writes.

David was alert. He ran to meet Goliath.

" Forgive us our debts, As we forgive our debtors. " O God of mercy and of love, We leave our gift Before the altar.

With true and tender love the Master healed the sick, the brokenhearted, those long bound by false beliefs. He spoke the Word of God, and quickly those who sought his aid were cured.

Through grief-dimmed lens of mortal consciousness Men's eyes may seem to see Only a cross, Dark monument of earth's finality. Dreaming of failure and defeat, Men sit in darkness, bowed in Submission To unreal tyranny.

No time have I to spend in idleness today; No moments can I lend to error's subtle way. A task I have been given through this direct demand: Put off the old, put on the new.

Sad heart, grieved in befogged belief That mortal thought has any power at all To value you, belittle, or approve Your selfhood, your endeavor, or true worth, Come, now, recall the gentle, wise words: Nothing Outside a man can enter and defile; But that which is within—see thou to that! Probe deep and deeper for that hidden sin Which barbs the arrows shot from error's bow; Probe deep for pride—that cost vain Lucifer His heavenly home, peace, place, under God's dome— That cloaks itself in many a mask and guise (Self-pity, justification, apathy). Then, when the probe is pure unselfed desire To reach the truth of selfhood as God's son— Not you or I alone but everyone— Neither belittlement by mortal thought Will sadden us, nor adulation stir A pleased response to hollow blandishments.

" At evening time it shall be light," What matter that the earthly night Appears to shroud the budding thought? It cannot dim the inward glow, Whose rays dispel all human woe And show what wonders God hath wrought— When gratitude and faith burn bright: "At evening time it shall be light. ".

Let not a moment's specious apathy Seclude my consciousness from healing light. Nor vague unease despoil the clarity That sees, through error's claims of storm or blight, The way of Christ's appointing, straight and clean, Lucent with holy joy and tenderness, And free from querulous voice that would demean Man's purity or heaven's loveliness.

Along the streets of Babylon sweet music played, Commanding all to bow before the image made Of gold. That melody of dulcimer and flute Still summons mortal sense, though faster now, to suit This age.