Poems

Man dwells within the strifeless realm of Love; No wilderness of hate or want is there, Nor prodigal illusion challenging Man's status as the Father's beloved heir. All goodness God bestows upon His child; The husks and hunger come from dreams, mist-spun.

The shepherd loves his sheep. The little lambs he leads into the fold caressingly.

" She is not dead, but sleepeth," Jesus said. His certainty of Truth, that ruled out fear, Gave swift dismissal to the scornful sneer And skeptic laugh.

" Who shall roll us away the stone from the door of the sepulchre?" the women asked, not knowing how they might bear sweet spices to outpour their tender reverence in last bestowing. But when they looked by radiant light of day, no longer was the tomb a hopeless prison.

It is not found in man-built walls, However strong they seem to be; Nor in the treasured bullion Of coffers kept with lock and key; Nor in possessions highly prized, Beset by fear of loss and lack. Substance is Life, by which man lives In full, unmeasured length of days.

Beguiling are the knobs, push buttons, switches, Encircling you; no other century Has so electromagnetized its doings: Its comings, goings, its communications, By word, by flash, by wire, throughout earth's nations. Dear innocents, earth's little ones, inheritors Of the great multiplicity of man's device; (Yet first, beyond all else, inheritors Of every good and perfect gift of God), Be not bemused by symbols that would claim A power apart from thought that spells His name! Even a little prayer is not amiss When finger on button rests, on switch, on gauge, When hand lifts up receiver from the hook— A silent, "We thank You, God!" that this we know: Power is not in nor issues from dynamo, From friction, pressure, plunge, velocity, Gigantic wheel, material mass and stress, Nor conjured by any force for fallible gain That breeds no more of pleasure than of pain; But issues only as intelligence, Impelled, directed by Almighty Love, Invisible, yet permeant as air, Controlled, yet free, as is an eagle's flight, And kind, as a mother speaking in the night.

Across the cloud-white fields of earth The vintage bells of Science, ring; The golden hour of Truth is here, And hope is ripe for harvesting. With joy we bear the sheaves of Mind, Our thoughts fixed constant to Life's goal; The laborers will soon be more— To garner in the wealth of Soul.

We are the rich now. We are the ones Who inherited "all things," the cherished sons Charged to repudiate the "fables And endless genealogies.

From dawn till night throughout the summer day His song, a harbinger of heaven's harmony, Floats far and wide from off the meadow grass, Or orchard branch, a cheerful roundelay. Thus as I journey through earth's troubled sea And meet with many a weary, burdened one, May I give cheer and love—God's gifts to all.

Let us rejoice in the sinless purity of man, Walking serenely in the love of God. How noble is his aspect, meek his mien, How fearlessly he moves within the light, Knowing his stature as a prince of Truth, Reflection from the radiance of Mind, Secure within the sinlessness of Soul.