The times are not degenerate. Man’s faith <br />Mounts higher than of old. No crumbling creed <br />Can take from the immortal soul the need <br /> Of that supreme Creator, God. The wraith <br />Of dead beliefs we cherished in our youth <br />Fades but to let us welcome new-born Truth. <br /> <br /> Man may not worship at the ancient shrine <br />Prone on his face, in self-accusing scorn. <br />That night is past. He hails a fairer morn, <br /> And knows himself a something all divine; <br />No humble worm whose heritage is sin, <br />But, born of God, he feels the Christ within. <br /> <br /> Not loud his prayers, as in the olden time, <br />But deep his reverence for that mighty force, <br />That occult working of the great all Source, <br /> Which makes the present era so sublime. <br />Religion now means something high and broad, <br />And man stood never half so near to God.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-times-2/
