Re: The poetry of Philip Britts

Down the years a murmur runneth,
Bleeding hearts that wince in pain,
While the boasting politicians
Vaunt the claims of man in vain.
 
Building cities, stone on stubble,
Seeking safety in their might,
Till they grind the men to rubble
With their bombers of the night.
 
Through the earth there runs a challenge
Clearer than the trumpet call:
"Oh, forsake your ancient folly,
Build the Brotherhood of all.
 
"Seek the city that God buildeth,
City of the heart and hand,
Not beyond the grave of shadow,
Here on earth, in your own land."
 
Philip Britts, 1944


Bruderhof wrote:

> My Thoughts and Toil
> 
> I give to the earth,
> And from that soil
> A Rose has birth.
>  
> When the flower blows
> I give it to thee,
> But sweeter than the Rose
> Are thy gifts to me.
>  
> Philip Britts, July 1942 
>