Category: Poetry (Page 1 of 2)

The New Country

Yester-eve I left the quiet plain,
The path washed out by a night of rain;
Now past the mountains, a dawn bursts clean,
Glowing in glory, golden and green.
I know not what hides in the trees and grass
Spread below me now, where I soon will pass,
But with springing step now I run to meet
Moss and roots and thorns all beneath my feet.
For inside my soul burns a pure white star,
Summons, strength, and joy, kindled from afar,
Promising me sure that my home is there,
Of which I hear whispers in sky and air.
So now whether pathways be rough or smooth,
I run on in strength of a singing truth:
That the rush of wind, and the burbling stream,
And the glow of leaves in a stray sunbeam,
And the clouds above and the stones below,
And all things wheresoe’er I may go,
Are my Love’s unceasing pledge and call,
And His word is joy, for He is my all.

The White and Black Bouquet

To Thee I bring, dear Savior,

An offering tonight,

And pray it may find favor

By Thy grace in Thy sight;

No show of noble powers—

Such grandeur small souls lack—

A humble bunch of flowers,

A mix of white and black.

 

White blooms, star-shaped, sweet-smelling,

Their stalks all smooth and green,

Their snowy glow is telling

Of triumph’s happy sheen;

All this day’s little glories,

Sweet joy and bright success,

I offer Thee these stories,

With hymn of thankfulness.

 

The black blooms, shaped like crosses,

Less sweet and sharp with thorns,

These are the stings and losses

For which man’s nature mourns;

Pain, disappointment, folly,

The times when foes prevailed,

The springless melancholy,

The times I tried and failed.

 

I bring Thee these small prizes;

Thou only know’st the worth

Of any gift that rises

From human hands on earth;

So I pray that Thy splendor

May wash these in its rays,

Their fragrance of surrender

Rise pleasing to Thy praise.

 

And I’ll thank Thee, my Dearest,

For this day’s white and black;

Faith’s eye sees Thy love clearest;

My small heart gives love back.

For everything is beauty

When seen with love of Thee,

And e’en the humblest duty

Is joyous then, and free.

After Rain

Heavy veils of grey yield to wind,

Parting to reveal still-shining blue,

Shedding soft shreds, whiter now and thinned,

Gladsome white-gold sunshine beaming through.

 

All the ruts and ditches that here lie,

They are mirrors now of water-glass,

Wherein fragments of the glowing sky

Gleam up from among the stones and grass.

 

Branches netted roughly, tattered bars,

Drab grey webs all drizzle-wet and grim,

Glisten now with countless bits of stars,

Silver-bright, as if with Christmas trim.

 

Every leaf and flower-head weighed down,

Battered with the rushing of the rain,

Now stands splendid in its diamond crown,

And is swift forgetting all its strain.

 

All the earth is baptized, washed anew,

And stands radiant before the sun,

All the gloom and tempest that it knew

Now become such glory as to stun.

 

So for nature, so also for me,

When that which oppressed and struck me low,

As the light returned, changed wondrously,

New marvels of grace and joy to show.

 

Let it come then, Lord, the bitter rain,

Though it drench and pound upon my soul;

Only, send Your light, and make my pain

Something shining, my fractures Your whole.

Bride of Christ

Raise a glad song, favored maiden;

Sing out sweetly, turtle-dove,

By your King with treasures laden,

Called by Him to be His love!

Truer bridegroom was there never,

Nor more generous a lord;

All that’s His is yours forever,

Sealed with His eternal Word!

 

Lo, He sets His mark upon you,

Claims you for His own dear bride;

With His holy Blood He won you,

For your love He fought and died!

Now fair robes as bright as morning

He brings for your wedding gown,

Rarest jewels for your adorning,

And a shining royal crown.

 

But before the feast in splendor,

When your joy will be complete,

Bride of Christ, you must surrender

To what seems a dark defeat,

To the night of bloody sweating,

To the vicious world’s abuse,

To the hour, of God’s own setting,

When your very self you lose!

 

From earth’s world of dim phantasm

To your Spouse’s radiant realm,

One road only spans the chasm;

Let it not your heart o’erwhelm.

He sees your tears, drawn by fire,

By each wound and valiant loss,

Diamond stairs to lead you higher

By the King’s road of the Cross.

 

If a maid follows her lover,

Join yours on His mystic way,

Road He traveled to recover

Precious souls that dying lay.

Join His great task of redeeming

Each lamb wand’ring from His fold;

Your blood mixed with His and streaming

Sows their new life manifold.

 

Think on Whom it is you marry,

King of Kings and Friend most dear,

Who scorns not weak lambs to carry—

Let His love cast out your fear!

He’s worthy of all your treasure,

And you’ll find, dear bride of Christ,

He returns bounteous measure

For all that you’ve sacrificed!

 

Break your jar, your ointment flowing,

Pour it and count not its worth,

For the joy that passes knowing

And the love past scope of earth!

Take your cross, moved by Love’s fires,

Learn its deep, mysterious charms,

Find your heart full past desires,

Find you’ve risen—in His arms!

 

 

Ocean City Boardwalk

The sun beats down upon this bench;

The boards resound with thumping feet;

The passing breeze picks up the stench

Of tobacco and roasting meat.

 

To left and right a world spreads out

Of blaring music, flashing signs;

The cream-streaked people peer about

Through glasses dark for cheapest finds.

 

An eastern wind comes from behind,

A crisp and cool breath from the sea;

Its sharp, clean fragrance wafts to mind

A world of grace and mystery,

 

A quiet world, breakers and breeze

Singing their wild, blissful hymn,

Earth’s edge fading in glimm’ring seas,

Free blue-green depths where finned things swim.

 

My heart leaps up to hasten there,

Leaving behind this boardwalk scene,

For all its splendid flash and glare

Pales by this majesty serene.

 

I’ve brought no purse nor souvenir,

Nothing that I need fear to leave.

My shoes I gladly set down here,

Forsake the scene, and never grieve.

 

For though its sweet delights I reap,

My hungry heart finds them too small;

The sea’s glory is strong and deep,

And fades not nor changes at all.

 

So may I gladly quit this earth,

Not weighted by things on the way,

And freely seek my second birth,

The joys deeper than man can say.

 

Though pleasures here be bright and sweet,

Still my heart strains up from the sod;

Into the depths shall fly my feet,

The changeless, beauteous depths of God!

 

 

The Host of the Wounded King

All you who weary of living,

All you tear-blinded who stumble,

Finding the road unforgiving,

Feeling your strength slip and crumble,

Though blood from your hands be streaming,

And the cross your backs encumber,

Through this night one star is gleaming:

Strength Himself is of our number!

 

Though we be lonely and desolate,

And our faith’s rock-bed be shaken,

We have not lost our last, nor yet

Are we completely forsaken.

That Lord so battered and slandered

Rises like flame of the morn,

Raising His unconquered standard,

Winding His summoning horn!

 

Rise up to heed His call!

Hail it, for ‘tis addressed

To weary suff’rers all,

Worn, wounded and oppressed.

All earth He means to win;

All souls who dwell therein

Rise as to Him they fall;

His cross, His weapon blest.

That conquest we may share,

All we who crosses bear,

Strange triumph if we dare

To love Him best!

 

Let us not drag like slaves

Burdened and raddled,

But with our King who saves,

Fight even to our graves,

As knights embattled!

Shall we not now perceive?

Hasten, all who believe;

Though all our hearts may grieve

And bones be rattled,

Let us live well and die

Knowing for Whom and why—

He leads us, riding by,

On ass-charger saddled!

 

Hark what we have to win!

Pulling from swamps of sin

Our souls and others’ in

Strength of His power;

Gaining, through patient fight,

Ever a higher height,

Up toward the world of light,

Hour by hour!

All of our bloody tears

Sowing our battlefield,

By our feet hoed, will yield

Fruit past the years,

From faith-laid seed appears

Immortal flower!

 

When we hear glad and resounding

His final blast o’er the earth,

All these grim foes now surrounding

Will, like the womb-walls at birth,

Burst away, and we will gather

Into our King’s lightsome hall,

No more blood-streaming, but rather,

Streaming His joy in its all.

 

Shall we not then rouse our spirits

And stand our ground this one night,

Knowing that we need not fear its

Dark, who have drunk of His light?

Faith’s light kindles Love’s blazing heat,

We fight by its heavenly glow,

Bleeding, but ne’er in defeat—

Till morning His triumph will show!

A Silent Consolation

The silence is tremendous here;

My heart is sore and dry;

I’ve wrung out every bloody tear

And found it good to cry.

 

This emptiness that’s taken hold

Seems to be listening

For some word that cannot be told

Except in suffering.

 

I listen with my weary soul,

My spirit limp and still;

Like water welling in a hole,

Fair sights my worn mind fill.

 

The branches this spot encompass

And sprinkle streams of sun;

Leaves glowing green like bits of glass

Quiver while breezes run.

 

The grass gleams back; the insects whirl;

The flowers softly glow;

Blithe birds and little roguish squirrel

All scurrying by me go.

 

And spread out on majestic high,

Its blue and white aflame

With golden sun, the evening sky,

O’er all my world the same.

 

All these are breathing out to me

A signal growing strong,

One thought—joy, joy—pulsing lightly,

A sweet and throbbing song.

 

“Why joy?” I ask. “What is there here

That should my spirit start?

What does your beauty frail to clear

The burden in my heart?”

 

Swift they reply, “Man, we are more

Than only what you see.

Our beauty is not idle, for

It speaks reality.

 

“Such is your Father, such His hand!

Spilling His splendors forth,

Scatt’ring them so you’ll understand

How His love sets your worth!”

 

“Are you His splendors, then?” say I.

“Yet you are not like Him;

For you too change, and slip, and die—

Small joy in what grows dim.”

 

Swift they reply, “Rejoice we must,

And you too, more than all.

We each are bound to die in dust

Since Adam’s grievous fall;

 

“And so we groan in longing, yes,

But longing not in vain;

There runs a song of hopefulness

Through sun and cloud and rain;

 

“For in the second Adam’s rise

We all are made anew,

And though death swallow earth and skies

‘Tis but a passing through.

 

“O learn now what the seedling shows,

That all your suffering

Is but the sowing of what grows

Unto far greater spring.

 

“Rejoice with us, be sown with us,

And fear ye not to dream

That all griefs may joy-blossom thus,

However sight may seem.”

 

So is it thus that flowers fall,

That suns wear out and die,

That loss besieges sinners all

Beneath the dimming sky—

 

So that all things, consumed and spent,

May keep what seedlings hold,

And with the One Who death-bars rent

Spring up a hundredfold?

 

I see it not, it seems so far,

Yet this I shall not lose,

This glimpsing of the things that are—

This I embrace and choose.

 

The Spirit that gives silent things

A mission and a voice

In silence stills my questionings

And calls me to rejoice.

 

To my Mother

You raise all sorts of flowers, bright splendor from the dirt;

Their beauty thanks, rewards you, in speech of fragrant words.

But when it comes to washing that hundredth smelly shirt,

Scrubbing that thousandth plate off, or picking bunny turds,

Or raking through the thicket of toys and who knows what,

Or once again erasing that pencilled backwards 5,

Or cutting food for hours, yourself oft getting cut,

Vacuum, detergent, wet wipes, grocery bags, miles to drive—

These may not seem as lovely, their fruits meager and mean;

Scarce color or sweet fragrance floats up your work to hail;

Scant thanks on earth for toils of the domestic queen,

No praises for her battle when chaos-weeds assail.

Yet eyes of higher justice, that watch the hidden things,

Observe her life of giving and see there nothing small;

For her is kept a splendor beyond the themes man sings,

Where something fair shall blossom from humble labors all.

And know you that your efforts are altered even now,

By wise and mighty wonder, to sweet resplendent bloom,

Glowing bright hues exquisite, all gathered—who knows how?—

Around the King of Heaven, His high throne to perfume.

The Mercy of Fatima

Twenty long centuries back through Earth’s story,

Broken man heard gracious words from her Son,

“I came to lead up the fallen to glory,

Seeking the lost, lest sin bring them undone.”

So she, one century past, came descending

Out from the splendor and peace near His throne,

Down ‘mid the ugliness and hate unending

That men were reaping, as first they had sown.

 

She came, our Mother! all mercy and brightness,

Strong seaside beacon, all blazing with grace,

Seeing in tattered souls the divine likeness

Hurtling through lonely chasms of space.

Through humble messengers she gave her warning:

“Turn now from sins, lest they tear you apart!

Answer my Son with your love, not with scorning;

Come and learn virtue from your Mother’s heart.”

 

Her chosen seers, they saw her heart bleeding;

With Heaven’s sight she saw all, maybe wept,

For she beheld many loved children speeding

Through empty lives, faith and pledges unkept;

Swarms of the suffering, deep rivers running

Thick with the flow of their blood and their tears;

Cold, careless souls all the agony shunning;

Stony eyes seeing naught but what appears.

 

Yet in her breast her Son’s own heart beat truly,

His will, His love, were hers, burning to bless;

Dear Mother, gathering her children newly,

Clement Queen, pouring forth Heaven’s largesse!

By words and wisdom, by her Spouse the Spirit,

By lights on high and the sun’s changing face,

She made that field, for all who drew near it,

Even in thought, a great wellspring of grace.

 

Come, tortured hearts! fly in hope to your Mother,

Come, doubting souls, hail your most gracious Queen;

No foul grime-clouds can once hope to smother

The Heaven-star now at Fatima seen!

Once with the sun’s mighty flame she dried sweetly

Thousands who gathered in tempest and rain;

Now souls, with pain or crime sodden completely,

In her Son’s flaming love she warms again!

 

Through this past century, blackest and bleakest

Of any age that has known foolish man,

How many heard, when their spirits grew weakest,

Her gentle call, “Rise, come home–you still can!”

How many came to that high-favored field,

Seeking their share in the grace that she brought,

And found their mustard-seed faith, sown there, yield

Harvest of joy beyond all hope or thought!

A Word on the Sacred Heart

As through the midnight shades I go,
Amid the dark I see a glow,
So bright, so warm, a wide window–
O Lord, is it Thy Heart?

I feel its warmth from where I stand,
Its sweetness ‘mid the barren land,
Reach from it, Lord, and take my hand–
Bring me into Thy Heart.

There shall I find all I could miss,
My every true love’s fullest bliss,
If Thou, dear Lord, but grant me this–
To keep me in Thy Heart.

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