They kindled on the hearth a fair flame gleaming, And set a row of chairs before its light Where happy eyes should cast their cheerful beaming With rest and song that come with falling night. They reared with loving hands a fireside altar Where hungry hearts in reverence might come, Where trembling lips might their petitions falter Before the Throne of Grace, and lo, ’twas HOME. Palm Sunday v1925 Adown the ringing street he came, The Lord of all the years. A thousand voices of acclaim Were ringing in his ears. Silent was he who knew his way Of mingled joy and loss Began where Bartimaeus lay, And ended at a cross. And ever it has been as then. The path of triumph trod Amid the loud acclaim of men, Beneath the smile of God, Begins where need holds forth its hands, And pleads with weary eyes, And ends where, grim and silent, stands The Hill of Sacrifice. Roads v1925 There is a road to happiness; There is a road to pain; A road to failure and success; A road to loss and gain; A road to meadows gay with flowers; A road to evenfall; A road to bright and shadowed hours-- God lets me tread them all. There is a quiet road that finds The little singing streams; A road that reaches till it winds Along the Hills of Dreams; A road to hope, to duty done, And to that last clear call Across the gates of setting sun-- God lets me tread them all. The Teacher’s Reward (1925) Who dwells with everlasting truth And lets that truth possess his soul; Who has companionship with youth To keep him young as swift years roll; Who writes his story on the page Of history by labor hard; And builds his life into his age, Has his reward. Who opens eyes that else were blind Till they behold the earth and sky; Who wakens interest in the mind That else were barren, dead, and dry; Who gently takes a weary hand And lays it in the Palm that’s scarred; Though others own the gold and land, Has his reward. Via Dolorosa (1925) Out the Damascus Gate it ran, A weary, cheerless road Along which stumbled once a Man, A cross-tree for His load. The street was teeming with the throng. The air was chill and gray, The hour when Jesus passed along That Dolorosa Way. It wound a slope that flung its height Against a sullen sky. Upon a summit--tragic sight-- Three crosses lifted high. But lo, beyond them, manifold The lifting glow of day. It ended at the gates of gold, That Dolorosa Way. The Chameleon (1926) Upon a green leaf he is green, Upon a red one ruddy. He suits his color to the scene-- Blue, brown, or grey, or muddy. Wherever he may chance to go He meets the crowd’s demanding. In Rome he does as Romans do, And so he keeps his standing. I know not his philosophy-- Platonic or Aurelian. No matter. Who would want to be Reputed a chameleon? The City’s Nerves (1926)