Hope

God clothes with beauty even the things of decay — rusted poles. Moss-grown tombs. The tree that will die this sunset, and our long cherished love. At the distance the discarded high-rises ruefully stick out with a striking appeal. Beauty is never fleeting anything. It is only arriving more and more.

The Way by the cliff where walk all the men, the Way so true keeps the cliff hidden. Some odds yet turn to the cliff running by – the deep dark cliff where no good lie. The plain men pass, they walk just free. The odds unlike, they can't unsee the brink of the cliff, they mourn'n despair, can't deny the cliff so clearly there! For long on the cliff so their sharp eyes set, still stand on the way, their heads forget. The way but their home, in time their feet find the Rock of men that lay underneath. The rock so laid that men be won back whose heart will now show what sight will lack. So, that way by the cliff still walk these men – the deep dark cliff now in sight remain. Yet eyes gape just the way so blest. Men walk with will, their hearts find rest.

I wish he rather went to You when he saw her down the lane. If only had he known You then. Did the child know he didn't have to be loud? He didn't need the little mores, but did he still push through the crowd? Was it there he began running? It was probably not late. But I don't know if he has ever stopped yet. I wish he rather went to You when he stretched before those men. If only had he known You then. Did the child tremble guarding his mother like a shield? Did he not know there was no might that he could yield? Was it there he began trying? It was probably not late. But I don't know if he has ever stopped yet. I wish he rather went to You when they praised what he had penned. If only had he known You then. Did the child's wide smile hide that hole in his core? Picking whatever was scattered, did he yearn to fill it more? Was it there he began stuffing? It was probably not late. But I don't know if he has ever stopped yet. I wish he rather went to You when he pulled the rope in vain. If only had he known You then. Did the child, for once, crave a knock on his door? Who did he think of while he was lying on that floor? Was it there he began crying? It was probably not late. But I don't know if he has ever stopped yet. He knows you now, will he free his hands and lean? Even before he found you, will he know that you found him? In his pain, pride and pleasure, will You now let him know? That if not to the Father, there is nowhere he can go!