The obsequious brush curtails truth
in deference to the canvas which is narrow.
The hill in its longing for the far away sky
wishes to be like the cloud
with its endless urge of seeking.
To justify their own spilling of ink
they spell the day as night.
Profit laughs at goodness
when the good is profitable.
It is easy to make faces at the sun;
he is exposed by his own light.
History slowly smothers its truth
but hastily struggles to revive it
in the terrible penance of pain.
Beauty knows to say, “Enough”,
barbarism clamours for still more.
God loves to see in me not his servant
but himself who serves all.
The morning lamp on the lamp post
mockingly challenges the sun
with the light it has borrowed from him.
I am able to love my God
because he gives me freedom to deny him.
Wealth is the burden of bigness,
welfare the fullness of being.
Between the shores of me and Thee
There is the loud ocean, my own surging self,
which I long to cross.
The right to possess foolishly boasts
of its right to enjoy.
The rose is a great deal more
than a blushing apology for its thorn.
To carry the burden of the instrument,
count the cost of its material,
and never to know that it is for music,
is the tragedy of life's deafness.
The mountain fir keeps hidden
the memory of its struggle with the storm
murmuring in its rustling boughs
a hymn of peace.
God honoured me with his fight
when I was rebellious
he ignored me when I was languid.
The man proud of his sect
thinks that he has the sea
ladled into his private pond.
Life sends up in blades of grass
its silent hymn of praise to the unnamed
True end is not in the reaching of the limit
but in a completion which is limitless.
Let thy touch thrill my life’s strings
and make the music thine and mine.
The inner world rounded in my life,
like a fruit matured in sun and shower,
in joy and sorrow,
will drop into the darkness of the original soil
for some further course of creation.
Form is in Matter, rhythm in Force,
meaning in the Person.
There are seekers of wisdom and seekers
but I seek thy company
so that I may sing.
Like the tree its leaves, I scatter my speech
on the dust.
Let my words unuttered flower in thy silence.
My faith in truth, my vision of the perfect,
help thee, Master, in thy creation.