Our thoughts are molding unmade spheres, <br /> And, like a blessing or a curse, <br />They thunder down the formless years, <br /> And ring throughout the universe. <br /> <br />We build our futures, by the shape <br /> Of our desires, and not by acts. <br />There is no pathway of escape; <br /> No priest-made creeds can alter facts. <br /> <br />Salvation is not begged or bought; <br /> Too long this selfish hope sufficed; <br />Too long man reeked with lawless thought, <br /> And leaned upon a tortured Christ. <br /> <br />Like shriveled leaves, these worn out creeds <br /> Are dropping from Religion’s tree; <br />The world begins to know its needs, <br /> And souls are crying to be free. <br /> <br />Free from the load of fear and grief, <br /> Man fashioned in an ignorant age; <br />Free from the ache of unbelief <br /> He fled to in rebellious rage. <br /> <br />No church can bind him to the things <br /> That fed the first crude souls, evolved; <br />For, mounting up on daring wings, <br /> He questions mysteries all unsolved. <br /> <br />Above the chant of priests, above <br /> The blatant voice of braying doubt, <br />He hears the still, small voice of Love, <br /> Which sends its simple message out. <br /> <br />And clearer, sweeter, day by day, <br /> Its mandate echoes from the skies, <br />“Go roll the stone of self away, <br /> And let the Christ within thee rise.”<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-creed-to-be/
