Re: The poetry of Philip Britts

THE HEALING MOON
 
Above the forest rolls the moon
And banishes the pall of night,
She floods this weary darkened world
With soft and soothing streams of light.
 
Her light flows over scenes of war
Where reeking trenches mar the field,
But oh the bitter hearts of men,
Would they to her calm influence yield.
 
She touches with a silver wand
Grim slums and sordid city streets,
Her fingers cool seek out the heart
Where high the haunted tumult beats.
 
And where the wild untrodden woods
Hide savage acts of claw and tooth,
She looks into the burning eyes
Of Nature fallen far from Truth.
 
Give praise to God, for sweet the moon
That tells His mercies never cease,
While we await the coming dawn
When Jesus comes to bring his Peace.
 
Tune:  "When I survey the wondrous cross"
      Philip Britts, May 1942