Each In His Own Tongue
A fire-mist and a planet,—
A crystal and a cell,—
A jelly-fish and a saurian,
And caves where the cavemen dwell
Then a sense of law and beauty,
And a face turned from the clod,—
Some call it evolution,
And others call it—God.
A haze on the far horizon,
The infinite, tender sky,
The ripe, rich tints of the corn-fields,
And the wild geese sailing high,—
And all over upland and lowland
The charm of the golden-rod,—
Some of us call it Autumn,
And others call it—God.
Like tides on a crescent sea-beach
When the moon is new and thin,
Into our hearts, high yearnings
Come welling and surging in,—
Come from the mystic ocean
Whose rim no foot has trod,—
Some of us call it Longing,
And others call it—God.
A picket frozen on duty,—
A mother starved for her brood,—
Socrates drinking the hemlock,
And Jesus on the rood;
And the millions, who, humble and nameless,
The hard, strait pathway plod,—
Some call it Consecration,
And others call it—God.
—W. H. Carruth.
Happiness In Work
It may be proved, with much certainty, that God intends no man to live in this world without working; but it seems to me no less evident that he intends every man to be happy in his work. Now, in order that people may be happy in their work, these three things are needed: they must be fit for it; and they must not do too much of it; and they must have a sense of success in it.
—John Ruskin.
Alternate Reading: Psalms 19.