Poem December 6, 1993 Issue

Love with patience

Lillian B. Dewey

The light of patience,
Pouring out of faces
Used to righting wrong
With Truth, reveals:
In spite of heaviness within,
Or outside force or gloom,
Mind's direction is
To listen, learn, and love with patience.

Patience—that's not murmuring.
It's persevering, unruffled,
Constant in labor.

I was wrestling with self-will.
"He opened not his mouth"^{Isa. 53:7.}
Reminded me, be still.
I asked the Father, "What is true?"
The answer came repeatedly—
His goodness, allness,
And His flawless image, man.
These facts alone were real,
Were substance—not illusion.

What if error should announce
Its grand performance of
That too pretentious play—Disturbance?
Can man, at peace as God knows him,
See beyond Soul's boundless harmony?

I thought of Mary Magdalene
And then of Jesus washing the disciples' feet.
Humbly I knelt and bathed in thought
Each actor in the play,
Willing to affirm man's dignity.
Wasn't Spirit bathing me?

Suddenly all was shining, singing
Of brotherhood and innocence,
Man's majesty and worth—reality.
I stood in awe. This was Christ.

Principle commands the hour
Of patience and her perfect work.
Let all in patience find:
"I will fill this house with glory ....
In this place will I give peace."^{Hag. 2:7, 9.}