Part 5

They kindled on the hearth a fair flame gleaming, And set a row of chairs before its light Where happy eyes should cast their cheerful beaming With rest and song that come with falling night. They reared with loving hands a fireside altar Where hungry hearts in reverence might come, Where trembling lips might their petitions falter Before the Throne of Grace, and lo, ’twas HOME.

Palm Sunday v1925

Adown the ringing street he came, The Lord of all the years. A thousand voices of acclaim Were ringing in his ears. Silent was he who knew his way Of mingled joy and loss Began where Bartimaeus lay, And ended at a cross.

And ever it has been as then. The path of triumph trod Amid the loud acclaim of men, Beneath the smile of God, Begins where need holds forth its hands, And pleads with weary eyes, And ends where, grim and silent, stands The Hill of Sacrifice.

Roads v1925

There is a road to happiness; There is a road to pain; A road to failure and success; A road to loss and gain; A road to meadows gay with flowers; A road to evenfall; A road to bright and shadowed hours-- God lets me tread them all.

There is a quiet road that finds The little singing streams; A road that reaches till it winds Along the Hills of Dreams; A road to hope, to duty done, And to that last clear call Across the gates of setting sun-- God lets me tread them all.

The Teacher’s Reward (1925)

Who dwells with everlasting truth And lets that truth possess his soul; Who has companionship with youth To keep him young as swift years roll; Who writes his story on the page Of history by labor hard; And builds his life into his age, Has his reward.

Who opens eyes that else were blind Till they behold the earth and sky; Who wakens interest in the mind That else were barren, dead, and dry; Who gently takes a weary hand And lays it in the Palm that’s scarred; Though others own the gold and land, Has his reward.

Via Dolorosa (1925)

Out the Damascus Gate it ran, A weary, cheerless road Along which stumbled once a Man, A cross-tree for His load. The street was teeming with the throng. The air was chill and gray, The hour when Jesus passed along That Dolorosa Way.

It wound a slope that flung its height Against a sullen sky. Upon a summit--tragic sight-- Three crosses lifted high. But lo, beyond them, manifold The lifting glow of day. It ended at the gates of gold, That Dolorosa Way.

The Chameleon (1926)

Upon a green leaf he is green, Upon a red one ruddy. He suits his color to the scene-- Blue, brown, or grey, or muddy.

Wherever he may chance to go He meets the crowd’s demanding. In Rome he does as Romans do, And so he keeps his standing.

I know not his philosophy-- Platonic or Aurelian. No matter. Who would want to be Reputed a chameleon?

The City’s Nerves (1926)

Somewhere is closed a circuit, And miles and miles away A filament is lighted; A wheel goes into play; A thought is carried quickly, In clearest tones expressed, Because an impulse flashes North, South, or East, or West.

And how? Beneath the pavement, Away from human gaze, Across the humid darkness Wires run in countless ways. In cables, ever-reaching Through subterranean curves, They carry thought and action. They are the city’s nerves.

[Illustration’s upper half depicts an above-ground daytime view of a cityscape. The lower half depicts a below-ground view cast in darkness except for two unclothed men; bolts of electricity extend from their hands. The art is signed “Pancoast.”]

Doing It Well (1926)

I SAW him do his act before a large and motley throng That sought relief and laughter in the house of dreams and song. Just who he was or whence he came of course I cannot tell. He only played a banjo, but he played the banjo well.

I saw her washing dishes in a simple little cot. Her life was spent in toiling there upon the selfsame spot. Her face was furrowed, and each line a story had to tell. She only kept a household, but she kept the household well.

I saw him fire an engine in a vast and grimy room, Though it was hard to see him in the still and dusty gloom. He watched each motion keenly as the pistons rose and fell. He only fired an engine, but he fired the engine well.

I saw him digging ditches with the mud upon his hands, And with that steady motion that a digger understands. He claimed no fame nor fortune; only brawn he had to sell. He was but digging ditches, but he dug the ditches well.

It matters rather little what task one may choose to do, So long as it is honest and his purposes are true. The years will ring his story far upon their golden bell, If he will only do the thing he may be doing well.

Enslaved Lightning (1926)

A nature worshipper, long dead, Came back in ghostly form, To visit where, in ages sped, He bowed before the storm. The city streets with radiance burned Through every darkened hour, And every busy wheel was turned By harnessed lightning power.

“Ah me,” he said, “The times do change. This is a different ball. So altered everything, so strange, I’m not at home at all. These moderns have audacious wills; The gods we served aright, They’ve put to work to turn their mills And light their streets at night.”

[Illustration of a window view of a city’s downtown on a stormy night. A generator is in the foreground next to the window. The window frames a skyscraper, other buildings, and street lights; they are all filled with light. A bolt of lightning extends from the sky to the generator. The art piece is signed “A Sturges” and below it the caption reads, “Decoration by A Sturges.”]

Flowers Are Thoughts of God (1926)

The flowers are the thoughts of God. They bloom in sun and shadow, By traveled path, or virgin sod, In every lovely meadow; In dooryards where the children play, And hours are swiftly winging; And Love comes at the close of day, Its selfless tribute bringing.

Silent they grow, each in its place, With cheer for all who love them, Breathing their perfume in the face Of all who bend above them. They blossom where the weary plod Their ways of toil and duty. The flowers are the thoughts of God; His love speaks in their beauty.

A Grace for Meals (1926) [Transcriber’s note: All verses are italicized.]

Thou who doest hold all things at Thy command The blessing of the sunshine and the rain, Thou never hast withheld Thy kindly hand From giving us the fruitage of the plain. Long hast Thou sheltered us from every storm. Long hast Thou seen that we were duly fed. Long hast Thou kept our fireside bright and warm. And so we thank Thee for our daily bread.

As we assemble at our simple board In all the gladness that is ours today, We thank Thee for Thy presence with us, Lord, And ask that Thou wilt be our guest alway. May all Thy children, wheresoe’er they be, Share in Thy bounty, by Thy hand be led, And lift their hearts from every land and sea, With us, to thank Thee for their daily bread.

The Grey Host (1926)

From the silent Southern river, From the reaching Western plain, From the quaint New England hillside Comes a host to march again. From Manila and El Caney, From the depths of many a sea, From the flow’ring fields of Flanders, Come the sons of Liberty.

Who are these that tread the silence? They are our departed brave, Who, despite their years of dreaming, Still are troubled in the grave. See, they bear a flaming banner, These who died for us of yore. This the message that it flashes: “Brothers, dream of war no more.”

Heart Gates (1926)

There is a wondrous country, A city built foursquare. And each and all are welcome To find a dwelling there. The nations gather homeward, Peoples from far and wide. Directions do not matter With gates on every side.

And is not this the mission That God to us has given-- To make the world we live in Seem more and more like heaven? Shall we not seek the friendship Of peoples far and wide, And let the heart’s fair city Have gates on every side?

The High Tension Line (1926)

It has no boast to make at all. Patient it holds unto its task Summer and Winter, Spring and Fall, With naught to tell and naught to ask.

Humble and steady, sure and true, Seeking no change of work or place, It has its given work to do, And does it with a changeless grace.

In its deep channel underground It serves its purpose day by day, Without a stir, without a sound, Though days be fair, though days be gray.

And yet what power is carried down The conduit through which it runs To turn the factories of the town, And flood its streets with blazing suns.

I know some men who are the same. They make no boast with foolish lips, But all their spirits are aflame. Power tingles to their finger tips.

“I am not eloquent” (1926)

“I am not eloquent,” he said. “I cannot spin of thought’s fine gold A sentence lovely to be read, A story wondrous to be told.” Thus did he answer God one day Upon a new Tiberian shore. And God said, “No, but you can say The word of love. I ask no more.” And so across the hurried years, Across the mighty land and sea, Through calm and tempest, joy and tears, He bore the message faithfully. He bore it till the set of sun, Until his time and strength were spent. Today the service he has done, Beyond all speech, is eloquent.

Knocking (1926)

THERE’S a sign that always thrills me When its pounding threat I hear, One that always rudely thrills me With the clutching grip of fear. Though the thought of it be shocking, And the homeward journey long, When I hear the engine knocking I am certain something’s wrong.

I have known a lot of people, High and low, and near and far, On the street, beneath the steeple, Who were like a motor car. Though successes may come flocking, And though he be going strong, When I hear a person knocking I am certain something’s wrong.

Life (1926)

I said to God: “Life is a wine-cup, A thing to be drained while we may; And those who can drink it most deeply And emptiest cast it away. The ones who have claimed the full measure Of all the joy it can give, Are those who have learned most completely What it means to be conscious and live.”

But God said: “No, life is a picture, A thing you may paint as you will. Your colors are of your own choosing, And yours is the measure of skill. You may paint, and the curse or the blessing With all of their burden or worth, When your brush has been dropped will be treasured As your gift to the children of earth.”

The Question v1926

THE women are cutting their tresses To look just the same as the men. They have thrown away skirts, and have taken to shirts, And collars, and neckties; and then The men have begun wearing knickers, With hose of elaborate art. They radiate bliss, but the problem is this: How are we to tell them apart?

One day when I saw a young lady Drop a handkerchief, quickly I ran And returned it to her with my heart all astir, But lo, when I spoke, ’twas a man. Then I slapped a young man on the shoulder, And he turned with a manner most tart. ’Twas a lady attired as the fashion required. Say, how do you tell them apart?

The Rooster (1926)

HE RISES at the break of day, Sometimes a little bit before it, To tell us that the dawn is gray And he is proudly gloating o’er it. He makes his boast that nothing’s wrong About him or his constitution. His voice proclaims with accent strong That he’s a going institution.

He has been whipped a hundred times, A hundred times run helter-skelter, But still his raucous challenge chimes As though he’d never sought for shelter. He has the courage to arise, And sally forth, and be a booster, Though gray or sunny be the skies. Here’s to the spirit of the rooster.

The Rulers of the Earth (1926)

Jim Jones with a will undivided Toiled on with his reaper and plow. He brought up his brood, and provided For them by the sweat of his brow. Whenever some plan was in question, In kindly and old-fashioned way He gave this unchanging suggestion: “Whatever the women folks say.”

The world with its strife and its glory Goes seeking for treasure and charm. The tale of its years is the story Of Jim Jones who toiled on the farm. The men wield the shovel and hammer, But if we should ask them the way The world should be run, they would stammer: “Whatever the women folks say.”

Sing a Little Song (1926)

When the heart is weary And the road is long; When the day is dreary, Sing a little song. Sing it in the spirit; Let joy linger near it; And your heart will hear it, Hear it and be strong.

When your hope is paling, When your plans go wrong, When your dreams are failing, Sing a little song. Send it thrilling, winging, Sunshine with its bringing. It will wake to singing Others in the throng.

Team-work (1926)

I take my horses out to plow, Or sow, or run the mower. One pulls away right down the row, One goes a little slower. They’ve often taught me in the past, Pulling in double leather, They only get along as fast As both can go together.

In every human progress we Together do the striving. And toward the better day to be Together we are driving. By team-work we must win at last, Whatever be the weather. We only get along as fast As all can go together.

[Illustration of a farming scene. Bottom third of frame is landscape. The foreground features a farmer walking behind and controlling a plow being pulled by two horses. Middle ground has gently rolling hills and a group of trees. Background has mountains. Upper two-thirds of frame is sky with white, billowing clouds. Art piece is signed “McV” (stands for G. R. McVicker).]

Their First Meal (1926)

The ham was cold. The milk was blue, The biscuits all were hard. The eggs and the potatoes, too, Were strong with rancid lard. Life leaned upon a slender staff In that first offering, But never banquet tasted half So pleasant to a king.

The years went by. They played the game, And soon amassed a hoard. The richest dainties skill could frame Were found upon their board. With choicest viands did they greet The great who chose to come, But never did they taste so sweet As that first meal at home.

[The first letter of the poem’s title overlays an illustration of a house with a front porch.]

The Umbrella Mender (1926)

“Have you any umbrellas to mend?” He cries down the echoing street. He travels the town to its end-- The city of hurrying feet. Why so, when the broad heavens wear No cloud and no shadow of gray? Because, when the weather is fair, We must think of the rainy day.

For the rainy season will come, As it has since the world began. And some will be ready, and some Will have left it out of their plan. When it comes, it is always too late To appeal to our patient old friend. We shall not hear his cry at the gate: “Have you any umbrellas to mend?”

The Cross v1927 Luke 22:42. “Nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.”

Upon some fateful hour and day Each comes to roads that cross. Blossoms and sunshine seems one way, The other care and loss. The spirit will be willing there To take the road that’s best. The flesh will weaken, and despair, And falter in the test.

Somewhere along the life we live Each finds his Calvary. There with himself each one must strive, And win his victory. How blessed is the pathway trod When flesh ’neath spirit fails; When cross the ways of self and God, And God’s good way prevails.

Cupid’s Lament (1927)

The coal oil lamp is now no more, With flame to dimness fingered. A gleaming chandelier is o’er The spot where lovers lingered. Where all is bright they will not go. No one can change or doubt it. They want to sit where lights are low. What can I do about it?

It was much easier for me In days that now are olden, When prying people could not see. Then all love’s dreams were golden. They sought a corner that the night Had curtained--you have seen them; But now the dusk-destroying light, Alas, has come between them.

A Day at a Time (1927)

A day at a time the world moves on; A day at a time is our toiling done; A day at a time do we have the dawn, And come to the setting of the sun; A day at a time our fate appears; A day at a time do we build the years. A day at a time is the only way; Whatever we do must be done to-day.

A day at a time is lifetime sent; A day at a time we must be content. However distant our dream may glow, A day at a time is all we go. A day at a time the stones are brought, And life’s great mosaic grandly wrought. A day at a time--but when all are past We shall reach the goal of our dreams at last.

The Future (1927)

A tyrant called, as tyrants used to do, An artist, skilled in form, and tint, and line. He bade him: “Paint for me a picture true Of the tomorrow of this calm of mine. Unfold for me the future’s portals wide. Unlock the gateway of the years to be. Whatever weal or woe they may betide Return again and prophesy to me.”

The painter went and sought the open street. He lingered there through many a watchful day Where sons of wealth and ragged urchins meet To talk, and laugh, and sing, and dream, and play. Then once again the tyrant’s room he sought, Unveiled for him the finished task, and smiled. Lo, on the canvas he had deftly wrought The pictured features of a little child.

God’s Manners (1927)

If you would learn God’s manners, Fare forth some summer morn, And see the roses cover The sharpness of the thorn. See the sun shining brightly, Chasing the clouds away, And hear the words of gladness The little people say.

Look at the green crops growing Up through the dewy air, And see the love and beauty Around you everywhere. No ugliness or evil Appears in sky or clod. Ask any summer morning, If you would learn of God.

The Great Adventure (1927)

The great adventure is not death, ’Tis life. It is to feel the pulsing round of breath, To take a place and hold it in the strife. To hope, and plan, and feel, and love, and dream, To look and climb To the far, rugged heights where visions gleam Of things sublime. Let us not live because we must, But live To feel the mighty challenge of a trust, To have a work to do, a gift to give. The pay may not be great in shining gold, But may be had Enough of satisfactions manifold To make us glad.

The Heart of a Child (1927)

Whatever you write on the heart of a child, No waters can wash it away. The sands may be shifted when billows are wild And the efforts of time may decay. Some stories may perish, some songs be forgot; But this ingraven record, Time changes it not.

Whatever you write on the heart of a child, A story of gladness or care That Heaven has blessed, or that Earth has defiled, Will linger unchangeably there. Who writes it has sealed it forever and aye. He must answer to God on the Great Judgement Day.

How It Started (1927)

WHEN Thales of Miletus Went to the store one day And bought a bit of amber, In a real human way He got a piece of woolen To rub it up a bit, And lo, the lint and dust grains Were drawn at once to it.

“Ha,” said old Thales, “’tis certain, A man half blind could see, This friction has begotten Some unseen energy.” To-day that power is doing The labor of the earth. How much were Thales’s amber And piece of woolen worth?

In Conference (1927)

JOHN JONES was head executive of a big city firm, And countless times had set his heel on some poor human worm. His office force was duly trained. Each knew just what to do To turn the nonelect away, and let the chosen through.

People with honest errands there, tired women, busy men, Were told he was in conference, and couldn’t see them then. “Come back a little later on,” the office girl would call, And John would manage not to see the most of them at all.

He passed away in course of time, as even rich men do, And came up to the pearly gates as though to hurry through. But lo, the way was firmly barred, and, sitting in a chair, He saw a white-robed office girl who asked his errand there.

“I hoped,” said he, “Saint Peter would be here and let me by.” In standard office language she delivered this reply: “Saint Peter is in conference. How long? I do not know. Come back a little later--say a million years or so.”

Inventive Genius (1927)

I’VE listed the inventions Since ages far away, And noted the discoveries Down to the present day. One little thing I’ve noticed, Thus far, of every one. It’s really very simple --When you see how it is done.

Somebody finds a secret That no one else has seen, Harnesses laws familiar, And makes a new machine. There’s not a task among them Requiring so much wit, But that I could have done it --Had I but thought of it.

Morning Prayer (1927)

Father, grant to keep and guide me Through the moments of the day. Let me know Thou art beside me, That no evil can betide me In my work or play.

Teach my hands some good endeavor While the golden hours shall run, Something that will last forever Let me bring to Thee, the Giver, E’er the day is done.

When at last the sun is wending Down the sloping West, And the evening shades descending Tell the world the day is ending, Watch above my rest.

Old-Fashioned Pictures (1927)

The old plush-covered album Upon the parlor stand Is but a distant country, A half-forgotten land Inhabited by people Strong as the sturdy oaks, Firm as the hills they conquered, --The dear old-fashioned folks.