THE TIMESThe times are not degenerate. Man’s faithMounts higher than of old. No crumbling creedCan take from the immortal soul the needOf that supreme Creator, God. The wraithOf dead beliefs we cherished in our youthFades but to let us welcome new-born Truth.Man may not worship at the ancient shrineProne on his face, in self-accusing scorn.That night is past. He hails a fairer morn,And knows himself a something all divine;Not humble worm whose heritage is sin,But, born of God, he feels the Christ withal.Not loud his prayers, as in the olden time,But deep his reverence for that mighty force,That occult working of the great All-Source,Which makes the present era so sublime.Religion now means something high and broad.And man stood never half so near to God.
The times are not degenerate. Man’s faithMounts higher than of old. No crumbling creedCan take from the immortal soul the needOf that supreme Creator, God. The wraithOf dead beliefs we cherished in our youthFades but to let us welcome new-born Truth.
Man may not worship at the ancient shrineProne on his face, in self-accusing scorn.That night is past. He hails a fairer morn,And knows himself a something all divine;Not humble worm whose heritage is sin,But, born of God, he feels the Christ withal.
Not loud his prayers, as in the olden time,But deep his reverence for that mighty force,That occult working of the great All-Source,Which makes the present era so sublime.Religion now means something high and broad.And man stood never half so near to God.