—Francis Brabazon
| Next Page |
| Today is the same day, same moment, that countless time ago |
| you, dear God, awoke from ageless sleep |
| desiring self-knowledge, and spread out the slow |
| evolving universe as bubbles on the surface of your deep |
| Existence-Bliss. Time is world, and world revolves |
| around the Axis of your being, which resolves |
| time into timelessness― |
| the still recess |
| called heart. On you alone devolves |
| the task of world enlightenment—causing the light |
| of One-beingness to shine, putting to flight |
| false truths, as stars illumining the night |
| by lovely morning. One birth you took and take for turning |
| ignorance into knowledge and set all hearts burning |
| with love for you the Ancient, Ever-Bright. |
| Dawn and sunrise are every moment around the earth, |
| so is creation every moment in the world: |
| a huge dancing and a vast mirth |
| in which the atoms of your lovely form are whirled |
| in shapes and patterns self-pleasing to your eye |
| and in conformity |
| with your compassionate heart. Nothing is apart |
from you. You are music, dance and poetry, |
| And sculptured Self in Self -imprisoned stone. |
| There is nothing but you. Nothing is not, you alone |
| EVERYTHING are: infant-smile and final moan |
| is you singing creation, sustaining, and breaking it |
| from solid settlement and making it |
| into that loveliness nearer your heart-tone. |
| Every moment is your birth: the universe |
| arises from it and swings upon its cyclic way, |
| each part longing, waiting to rehearse |
| its role with you in your love-play; for that glad day |
| of cycle's ending and that Birth of you again |
| as wholly God, and your boundless love to rain |
| upon each particle of self—your periodic Kiss, |
| in which is your Grace, and which alone can wipe away all stain. |
| This Birth I celebrate, this Word that springs |
| from your compassion and to all men brings |
| the Song of Morning and the stir of wings |
in hearts; while your disciples, selfness taming, |
| are like hill-beacons in the pre-dawn flaming; |
| and all the world stands on tip-toe and sings. |
—Francis Brabazon |
| Next Page |