[Written for the Sentinel]

Our Task

The sculptor, hewing from the shapeless rock
Each fragment foreign to his pattern fair,
Transforming with deft touch the stubborn block,
Or ringing blow, works only to lay bare
What long the granite's heart held unrevealed.
This beauteous thing, making beholders glad,
He brings to light. Imprisoned there, concealed,
It waited mind-directed toil to add
A noble treasure to art's classic store.
No maker he: not e'en an atom's weight
His chisel puts in place; but, aye before
His eye keeping the visioned ultimate,
Discards encumbering particles, that all
Observing his ideal may render praise.

We men are sculptors, as, attent to call
Of Truth, we strive in consciousness to raise
Aloft the model of the Son divine;
Eschewing subtle, wrong beliefs that seek
Despotic sway; suggestions out of line
With Principle rejecting, for they speak
With lying tongue; rejecting binding fears;
Long-cherished habits breaking, firm as stone;
Denying swift each error that appears;
Yea, mortal selfhood wholly to disown,
Our task, until, perceived in strength and grace,
Christ comes. No good in us originates;
By wisdom taught, we hourly must displace
Ungodlike concepts, for Love's image waits
Our gladsome, patient labor, thought on thought;
Then, lo, emerging glorious, unconfined,
Stands forth immortal man, God's skill hath wrought,
Supreme achievement of the master Mind.

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Letters from the Field
June 11, 1927

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