Poem December 12, 1988 Issue

A measure of meekness, Lord

Beverly Jean McCreary

Give me a measure of meekness, Lord;
not a self-degrading whine
or moans of falsely modest care.
Rather, may I wear meekness.

What is it, Lord?
What meekness had the Master?
How did he stay so still in prayer?
(Yet, when crowds surrounded him,
he calmly bore the weight of sin
—unfairly thrust upon him—
and towered in humble power.)

When God's presence is known,
Love's hereness felt,
Soul's nowness lived,
then only can I prove what meek may mean.
For, as the master Christian taught,
a Godlike life must have its start in humble thought.

Purged of thinking me-thoughts (I must learn, I must grow)
I find the quietness to know that Mind is God.
And in this stillness (silent/sweet)
my thoughts can gently greet the holy Christ—
be at one, as one, all one
with good.

Yes, I pray for a measure of meekness, Lord
(a modest request, at best).
Yet this prayer comes fully endowed with vigor/might,
joy and light.

It comes, in fact, already answered.
For you have filled my heart indeed:
the more of "meek" I have,
the more I need.

Beverly Jean McCreary

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