WHAT DIVINE drink wouldst thou have, my God, from this overflowing cup of my life? My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand at the portals of my ears silently to listen to thine own eternal harmony? Thy world is weaving words in my mind and thy joy is adding music to them. Thou givest thyself to me in love and then feelest thine own entire sweetness in me.
THOSE WHO walk on the path of pride crushing the lowly life under their tread, covering the tender green of the earth with their footprints in blood; Let them rejoice, and thank thee, Lord, for the day is theirs. But I am thankful that my lot lies with the humble who suffer and bear the burden of power, and hide their faces and stifle their sobs in the dark. For every throb of their pain has pulsed in the secret depth of the night, and every insult has been gathered into thy great silence. And the morrow is theirs. O Sun, rise upon the bleeding hearts blossoming in flowers of the morning, and the torchlight revelry of pride shrunken to ashes.
