Whether soaring through the sky encased in a steel air‐cage, or drawn o’er the land by snorting iron steeds, or moving easily over smooth highways on rubber wheels, or having my very thoughts paralyzed by the pounding din of assembly lines, the compass needle of my attention will ever keep turning toward Thy magnetic North Pole of divine love.

Beaten by winds of happenstance, drenched by cloudbursts of misery, sucked down in the mud of soul‐enmeshing, ego‐whipped activity, or wandering lost in jungles of confusion, my mind will yet ever reach out for Thy guiding touch.

The raft of my life, tossed about helplessly by the driving storms of need, was drifting toward rocks of insatiable desire.

O Polestar in our wisdom‐skies, Thy twinkling light beckoned and directed me toward Thy shores of eternal contentment.

Though countless mechanisms pound, twist, or stretch my anguished nerves, yet will the homing pigeon of my love wing its way peacefully toward its true home in Thee.


74. Be Thou My General in My Invasion of Ignorance