Poem May 22, 1948 Issue

CONSOLATION

F. Ina Burgess

As I observed a little lad
At play with all his gaudy toys,
A pyramid of colored blocks
Erected by his baby hands
With slow and patient carefulness
Went crashing in a brilliant heap.

Again, and yet again, he built
His stately rainbow tower anew,
To see it fall into a pile
Of ruined brightness at his feet.

And then, at last, I saw him turn,
In childish tears and weariness,
To arms that waited tenderly
To soothe and heal his fancied hurt.

Thus we, like tired children, turn
In disappointment and despair
From houses built upon the sands
Of futile, fleeting, mortal joys
To God, whose ever-present love
Encircles, holds, and heals us all.

From Spirit's substance, wisdom, power,
Shall rise within our consciousness
A fortress of impervious strength,
Where storms of error beat in vain.

With contrite heart and trusting faith,
Turn now, O child of God, to Truth,
The Comforter, divinely sent
To save, console, and bless mankind.

F. Ina Burgess

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