Poem November 26, 1949 Issue

THE SNARE IS BROKEN

Blanche E. Norvell

Swift-flying bird winging your way aloft,
What drew you down to dark entanglement?
Was it that fern was cool and moss was soft,
That flight had wearied you, and strength was spent?
In this enticing low retreat, a snare
Was cunningly devised to catch and hold,
To still your song, your upward mount impair,
Luring your brilliant wing to death and mold.
We too, formed in the image of our God,
From our high purpose oftentimes are led
To lower pathways, seeking lanes untrod
Until the voice speaks and the light is shed.
O bird and man, whose destinies are shaped,
"The snare is broken, and we are escaped."

Blanche E. Norvell

Send a comment to the editors

NEXT IN THIS ISSUE

Editorial

COUNTING THE COST