Poetry

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What soul doth stir within this mortal frame,

A weathered shell in which a child remains?

Who with abandon sprang to conquer every foe.

With but a righteous cloak of self, to show,

With pomp and pride the gain which he did view

As that of toil and merit now come due.



Scant prayer for wisdom ere he began,

To march the wide, worn trails of greedy man,

Then ladened ships of spoils succumbed,

To raging squalls that had become,

A tempest in the turmoiled tide,

Crushed by gales of stormy pride,

Afloat except for saving grace

In tumult of a turmoiled place.



Now calmed are once tormented seas,

Solemn stills once urgent pleas,

From placid shores flotillas embark.

On pacific routes from the Master's chart.

I pray that God may always be,

My compass on vast and troubled seas.

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