<h2><SPAN name="poem54"></SPAN>THE TIMES</h2>
<p class="poetry"> 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.</p>
<p class="poetry"> 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/>
Not humble worm whose heritage is sin,<br/>
But, born of God, he feels the Christ withal.</p>
<p class="poetry"> 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.</p>
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