Each In His Own Tongue by William Herbert Carruth

A fire-mist and a planet,
…A crystal and a cell,
A jellyfish and 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 tint of the cornfields,
…And the wild geese sailing high –
And all over upland 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 millions who, humble and nameless,
…The straight, hard pathway trod –
Some call it Consecration,
…And others call it God.

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photo by Thomas Kelley

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