His Hands

Cymbals clang and drums beat loud,

Drums that chant of death.

Terror's mighty horsemen ride

With their flaming breath.

On the far Korean shore

Where our sons are dying,

Little children, scarred and thin,

In their need are crying.

Jesus bids us be His hands,

Feed His sheep in war-torn lands.

The Archer

First in Archer Miniature Contest

The Missionary

The candle of his faith, unwavering, bright,
In glowing bids the darkling doubt take flight;
Dispels the shadow of the albatross
Of bleak discouragement ... He views the cross
Upon a hill ... and hears the Master's word:
"Be thou my voice to those who have not heard
My truths." In sandals of humility
And robed in selfless love, compassionately
While shepherding the flock, he golden-threads
The days for other shepherds ... Softly treads
An angel by his side--His Father knows!
Counting the hours by blessings, not by woes,
He pushes onward till his day is done
When lamps of God appearing, one by one,
Speak, "Peace!" Sweet is his rest companioning
With quietude what well-spent moments bring.
There comes a still, small voice, a lyric call:
"The greatest is the servant unto all."

Song for Fledgling Eagles

(To Our Missionary Youth)

O youth, you stand star-tall upon your dreams,
The destiny of nations in your hands.
Go, plant your lilies in cool crystal streams;
Erase the crimson stains from ravished lands.
Be now the weavers of the tapestry
Of freedom, making warp and woof skeins strong,
Its pattern flawless with democracy--
The strength of fledgling eagles is your song!
Your wings untried, speak from your hearts, though young,
Your voices tuned to live and love and laughter
Ring with a clearer and a truer tongue
A freedom lyric touching Heaven's rafter.

Chaste-strong, O youth, clasp hands with every race--
The vineyard also lies across the sea--
No matter what their creed or tint of face,
For God, through you, will build an empery
Of peace. His ensign to a troubled world,
Seek out the hungering ... the old ... the child ...
Till all humanity will see uncurled
His Royal Banner, and the atom mild
And gentle with its Atlas-strength, will bless
All men and earth will feel a miracle
Swelling its barren womb with tenderness
And one again become peace-beautiful.

O reverent youth, yours is the task to still
The tempest and awake the Lazarus-heart.
Before the high, white thunders of your will
The death-cowled years forever shall depart.
Clasp hands with God and every race and see
A peaceful world emerge from agony.

The Vineyard Waits

(To Frances, my missionary daughter)

My dear, you take with you the golden seed
Of truth. Your vineyard is the waiting world.
Plant well that it may grow and fill the need
For harvest and drouth-barren fields be pearled
With dew from Heaven. May your soul be filled
With love for all God's children, and your voice
Be lifted that the tempests may be stilled
And seeking hearts, hearing His call, rejoice.
What joy to see your plantings bright with flower!
May little children love you ... and the old ...
Garner the beauty from each well-spent hour
Leading the meek to peace within His fold.
Chaste-sweet and humble, your faith shining-clear--
God's arm is long to reach to you, my dear.