Questions & Answers
Bundles of tares for the burning—passion and sorrow and death; Bundles of wheat for the garner—mercy and patience and faith; Till at length Truth compels an exchanging, For Soul's joys, of sense-pleasures and strife, And man is found one with the Father, "Bound in the bundle of life. " Hilda M.
"Rabboni .
How lacking in humility and reverence I sometimes seem when tragic trend of mortal dream would subtly send me out to rush about in startled fright checking, adjusting, setting aright— and with the rod! At such times I must pause and think on God, know His the kingdom and its laws, acknowledge Him all-power—all glory— see Him the only cause. Althea Brooks Hollenbeck.
Encapsuled by deceptive minds that dreamed of earthbound life of hatred and despair, we could not free our shoulders, though they seemed to sag beneath the burden they must bear. Old hatreds' adamantine heaviness, the width and height and depth of loneliness, the empty desert of our homelessness heavy and heavier made the galling yoke— until we listened to a voice that spoke, in accents God has blessed, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
The spiritual is a kind and tranquil eye whose seeing is alert and clear, and keen enough to look through mists and see the sky, to see the real, that is not humanly seen. The spiritual is an ever-attentive ear which listens to God's children when they call.
Like a child, Father, trusting, obedient, I have come tonight; Eager, I sing the hymns praising Your omnipotence, listen to the reading: "Love, the way of Life. " Refreshed, I pray to know Your kingdom come, let Your will be done, break Your daily bread, give the glory, power to You; Rejoicing, hear these, Your witnesses, You have strengthened, lifted up, thank You, Father.
They say it is a miracle when I am healed. Dear Father, it is natural to see Thy love revealed! The very fountain of Thy light is here, with Thee.
When thought becomes a desert, scorched and dry, With no clear streams of love for thirsty sand, No singing lark will spiral to the sky And no embroidering blossoms trim the land. Where selfishness has sapped once-fruitful loam And spread its cactus to the canyon's brink, No little dove will light to build its home And no shy doe will come for food and drink.
Only our outward senses touch the griefs, mark the sad sequences of suffering and sin and death. They watch the wars, and hear the sound of weeping; they smell corruption, taste the bitter cup.
Come, turning, waking April earth, rejoice with me in Life's own season! No shuttle days go back and forth in vain from Mind to mortal reason. Spirit's steady zenith brings the radically radiant hour when I discern the secret springs in rocks, and wilderness is flower.