Questions & Answers
Oh, mother heart, heavy with sorrow at the gates of Nain, How swiftly was that sorrow turned to joy, When at the Master's touch, your son, called dead, Arose and spoke again—your only boy! With what divine compassion Jesus spake To you, "Weep not," then came and touched the bier, And they that bore your son away stood still— Death's bearers ever halt when Christ draws near— What joy, when at the Master's ringing words, Uttered with power—Young man, I say, Arise! Straightway your boy arose, loosed to your arms, And gazed with love into your shining eyes! Oh, mother heart, what holy joy to gain This glimpse of heaven at the gates of Nain! Ye saddened heart, bearing a bier where hope deceased is laid, With deadened faith and inspiration sere, Love's messenger is waiting at the gates, And will with tender fingers touch your bier, Saying, "Arise"! And at that holy call Hope will then spring to life, and faith revive, And inspiration resurrected will, Like rain-kissed grasses, fresh and verdant thrive; And those unholy thoughts of doubt and fear, Which sought to bury faith, will then stand still; While you, encircled in the arms of Love, Will rest secure, safeguarded from all ill; Then, happy heart, you too the joy will gain Felt by that mother-heart at gates of Nain.
Easter morning, sweet and fair, Blossom fragrance in the air, Birds that gladly, sweetly sing, Joyous Easter morning! Joy in all the sunlit trees, Happiness in every breeze, Every sunbeam seems to say, This is Easter morning. Easter lilies, pure and white, Symbols of divine delight, In their purity and peace, Speak of Easter morning.
My heritage! Oh, boundless thought! It never can be sold or bought. It is from God, my Life divine, Who gives me all that I call mine, Mine to possess and never lose.
In bitterness I sat me down to weep, When lo, a sunbeam touched my bended head. I closed the shade to shut out all the light, And hark, a bird song filtered through the dark! I stopped my ears, and would not hear the song.
He who gives kindness in return for hate, Who sees his own mistakes, nor calls these fate, Who lives serenely, nor avenges wrong— He is not weak, he is divinely strong.
" Thy kingdom come"—how long, O Lord, how long? Where is the promised land? Thy people cry, and like an angel's song The voice of Truth Proclaims it close at hand. Not in some far-off place beyond the sky, Nor in some future state— That realm for which the heavy-laden sigh Is here and now; We do not have to wait.
Falter not if the moment Hold aught of doubt or pain; Rise to the mount of vision. Lo, in the misted plain, As in the days of the Master, The laborers are few.
Science of Christ, man's perfect union sealing With tender love that knows nor hate nor fear, Wisdom's great strength that binds all hearts, revealing The perfect oneness of God's children dear! Thus, far or near, no sense of separation, No pride, no prejudice that seems to be, Can hinder us in love's great demonstration Or rob God's children of their unity.
Spring , the recurring, forevermore bringing Joy in rich fullness, in gladness upspringing; Touched by no sadness we watch its receding, Sure its return waits no sorrowful pleading; Glad of its promise, its questioning truth— Why not thus joy in the presence of youth? Spring, the unchanging, with fragrance upwelling, Ever exultant, of sweet fruitage telling, Sunshine or shade, with rich promises teeming, Certain of future triumphant redeeming, Never a murmur of doubting—forsooth, Shall we not thus reckon largely with youth? Spring, the eternal, time's passage defying, All of its ravages calmly denying, Year after year in glad freshness unfolding— Ah, our sad eyes are slow in beholding! When in spring's advent we vision God's truth, Then shall we harbor perennial youth!
Oh, that I may behold Thy beauty, Lord, In some small part Thy wisdom comprehend; The favored earth is but Thy footstool, Lord; How must Thy grace eternal all transcend! So much of love and beauty poured forth here, The heart impelled lifts up, Divinity! Then bow we low in holy orisons — What is the measure of infinity? A star-gemmed, firmament-encircled home, Bedecked and drawn in splendor by the sun, The music of the spheres where'er we roam, 0 beauteous world! Thy footstool, perfect One!