Poem September 11, 1948 Issue

THY PLACE

Elizabeth O'C. Ledbetter

So often one has asked, "Where is my place?"
Seeking, it seems, a special niche somewhere
Fashioned by human hands;
Not found by either slow or quickened pace,
Not manifested here, nor over there,
On clay or sea-washed sands.
Then, as one silences the human will.
Lifting thought even beyond the gilt peak
Of miscalled heart's desire,
Waiting, listening, the voice that is still
And small will soon be audible, will speak
Those truths that draw one higher.

Secure forever in the perfect Mind,
Where man expresses love unceasingly,
Where is sufficient grace
For all, and no fear enters in to bind
Or to enslave, for all are loved and free,
There is thy real place.

Elizabeth O'C. Ledbetter

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