Questions & Answers
Beloved , let us watch the morning come; See with what gentleness thin wands of light Disclose the sturdy features of earth's face, Probe every hidden stronghold of the night. Each dawn is promise of God's faithful love, Hallowing our hearts until we find In the luminous unfolding of His grace Truth's healing light enfolding all mankind.
My consciousness, like Hagar's, can remove From desert-burning drought to clearest source Of bubbling water, well of inspiration, To drink from, make my own, and know. Old fears Which have beleaguered me can rise and go, Banished forever by His host of angels: My city's sure defense, given in fiery Legions by my God.
Supply is oneness with the fountainhead. Streams stagnate only for the want of flow.
Youth may look forward, age look vainly back, But mortal dreams misrepresent the fact Concealed by calendar and almanac— That man is now harmonious and intact. And it is now we truly live and move In Spirit's secret place, secure and free, Where evil cannot penetrate, and Love Is all there is, now and eternally.
He said hard things, and they left him then; That way they would not tread. He who had healed at the close of day Said hard things, and they went away; For he would not take their mortal crown, Who was the crowned of God.
One night with pain and fear I seemed molested; But then I saw That in God's law These were but lies that mortal mind suggested. They could not be, For man is free And lives where only goodness is attested.
O God , all-knowing and all-seeing, whose love established man in being, whose knowledge patterned brotherhood, who sees creation "very good," we turn from pictures, in this hour, which testify of evil power, and trust in Thine omnipotence to free our hearts from turbulence. Thou art our God.
Oh , let me not believe that sands run out Or that late-blooming trees may set no fruit; Deliver me from paralyzing doubt When inspiration wakes a voice long mute. Let me not think that all the myriad Steps to perfection are too hard, too long, Or that time's inexorable period Must end abruptly unperfected song.
The paths and fields of Galilee were filled With lovely flowers. The birds sang merrily.
There is a line so fine one might despair of tracing it in stress of circumstance: dividing as it does what may appear not poles apart—not fact and fallacy— but truth and counterfeit so cunning-matched that even an eye well practiced in the art of severing what is true from what is not may be deceived. And find, too late, it has been tricked by skill of forgery.