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- Poems of Purpose - 6/12 -

Love goes, and leaves behind it gloom and blight; Like ghosts of time the pallid hours drag by, And grief's one happy thought is that we die. Ah, what can recompense us for its flight When love is lost?


There must in heaven be many industries And occupations, varied, infinite; Or heaven could not be heaven. What gracious tasks The Mighty Maker of the universe Can offer souls that have prepared on earth By holding lovely thoughts and fair desires!

Art thou a poet to whom words come not? A dumb composer of unuttered sounds, Ignored by fame and to the world unknown? Thine may be, then, the mission to create Immortal lyrics and immortal strains, For stars to chant together as they swing About the holy centre where God dwells.

Hast thou the artist instinct with no skill To give it form or colour? Unto thee It may be given to paint upon the skies Astounding dawns and sunsets, framed by seas And mountains; or to fashion and adorn New faces for sweet pansies and new dyes To tint their velvet garments. Oftentimes Methinks behind a beauteous flower I see, Or in the tender glory of a dawn, The presence of some spirit who has gone Into the place of mystery, whose call, Imperious and compelling, sounds for all Or soon or late. So many have passed on - So many with ambitions, hopes, and aims Unrealised, who could not be content As idle angels even in paradise. The unknown Michelangelos who lived With thoughts on beauty bent while chained to toil That gave them only bread and burial - These must find waiting in the world of space The shining timbers of their splendid dreams, Ready for shaping temples, shrines, and towers, Where radiant hosts may congregate to raise Their glad hosannas to the God Supreme. And will there not be gardens glorious, And mansions all embosomed among blooms, Where heavenly children reach out loving arms To lonely women who have been denied On earth the longed-for boon of motherhood?

Surely God has provided work to do For souls like these, and for the weary, rest.


In the journey of life, as we travel along To the mystical goal that is hidden from sight, You may stumble at times into Roadways of Wrong, Not seeing the sign-board that points to the right. Through caverns of sorrow your feet may be led, Where the noon of the day will like midnight appear. But no matter whither you wander or tread, Keep out of the Valley of Fear.

The Roadways of Wrong will wind out into light If you sit in the silence and ask for a Guide; In the caverns of sorrow your soul gains its sight Of beautiful vistas, ascending and wide. In by-paths of worry and trouble and strife Full many a bloom grows bedewed by a tear, But wretched and arid and void of all life Is the desolate Valley of Fear.

The Valley of Fear is a maddening maze Of paths that wind on without exit or end, From nowhere to nowhere lead all of its ways, And shadows with shadows in more shadows blend. Each guide-post is lettered, 'This way to Despair,' And the River of Death in the darkness flows near, But there is a beautiful Roadway of Prayer This side of the Valley of Fear.

This beautiful Roadway is narrow and steep, And it runs up the side of the Mountain of Faith. You may not perceive it at first if you weep, But it rises high over the River of Death. Though the Roadway is narrow and dark at the base, It widens ascending, and ever grows clear, Till it shines at the top with the Light of God's face, Far, far from the Valley of Fear.

When close to that Valley your footsteps shall fare, Turn, turn to the Roadway of Prayer - The beautiful Roadway of Prayer.


Now what were the words of Jesus, And what would He pause and say, If we were to meet in home or street, The Lord of the world to-day? Oh, I think He would pause and say: 'Go on with your chosen labour; Speak only good of your neighbour; Widen your farms, and lay down your arms, Or dig up the soil with each sabre.'

Now what were the answer of Jesus If we should ask for a creed, To carry us straight to the wonderful gate When soul from body is freed? Oh, I think He would give us this creed: 'Praise God whatever betide you; Cast joy on the lives beside you; Better the earth, by growing in worth, With love as the law to guide you.'

Now what were the answer of Jesus If we should ask Him to tell Of the last great goal of the homing soul Where each of us hopes to dwell? Oh, I think it is this He would tell: 'The soul is the builder--then wake it; The mind is the kingdom--then take it; And thought upon thought let Eden be wrought, For heaven will be what you make it.'


I am the refuge of all the oppressed, I am the boast of the free, I am the harbour where ships may rest Safely 'twixt sea and sea. I hold up a torch to a darkened world, I lighten the path with its ray. Let my hand keep steady And let me be ready For whatever comes my way - Let me be ready.

Oh, better than fortresses, better than guns, Better than lance or spear, Are the loyal hearts of my daughters and sons, Faithful and without fear. But my daughters and sons must understand THAT ATTILA DID NOT DIE. And they must be ready, Their hands must be steady, If the hosts of hell come nigh - They must be ready.

If Jesus were back on the earth with men, He would not preach to-day Until He had made Him a scourge, and again He would drive the defilers away. He would throw down the tables of lust and greed And scatter the changers' gold. He would be ready, His hand would be steady, As it was in that temple of old - He would be ready.

I am the cradle of God's new world, From me shall the new race rise, And my glorious banner must float unfurled, Unsullied against the skies. My sons and daughters must be my strength, With courage to do and to dare, With hearts that are ready, With hands that are steady, And their slogan must be, PREPARE! - They must be ready!

With a prayer on the lip they must shoulder arms, For after all has been said, We must muster guns, If we master Huns - AND ATTILA IS NOT DEAD - We must be ready!

Poems of Purpose - 6/12

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