The poetry of Philip Britts
Bruderhof Communities
shortly before the Second World War. He had studied horticulture and loved
to work in field and garden. The depth of his thought and faith, his
dedication to the common life of peace and brotherhood, and his hope of the
Kingdom of Justice found expression in his poetry through his love for
nature and hard work.
Bruderhof
Come let us to the fields away,
For who would eat must toil,
And there's no finer work for man,
Than tilling of the soil.
So let us take a merry plough,
And turn the mellow soil,
The land awaits and calls us now,
And who would eat must toil.
Philip Britts
Greg G.
He saw the clouds creep up in stormy herds,
He saw clouds hiding the eternal tors
And clouds like a flock of wild white birds
Winging across the sky towards the moors.
Walking alone he saw the high clouds reeling
In the changing skies,
But his eyes were afraid and seeking,
The voice in his heart was speaking,
And he felt that the clouds were a ceiling
Darkly forbidding his petulant spirit to rise.
Solitude mocked silently.
Sickened, he asked, "Oh, has she faith in me--
The faith that makes men heroes?"
Long after the echo, came a faint reply:
"Find in yourself a faith as true,
Faith is made, not of talk, but deeds,
Lest she go loving on, but you--
Go back to a harvest of weeds."
Philip Britts, 1936
Megan R.
When clouds swept low the sky at morn,
We planted seed of golden corn,
Stoop low, stoop low.
Upon the newly planted earth
Fell rain to bring the seed to birth,
That maketh corn to grow.
We watched the corn grow tall and green,
We hoed the stubborn weed between,
Stoop low, stoop low.
Some work beyond our human power,
By sun and rain brought forth the flower,
That maketh corn to grow.
The grain grew fat upon the stalk,
The farmers talked the harvest talk,
Stoop low, stoop low.
Now praise to God who by his might
Hath made the harvest golden bright,
Who maketh corn to grow.
Philip Britts, 1948
Joe Hine
When the night is cold and the winds complain,
And the pine trees sigh for the coming rain,
I will light a lonely watch fire, near by a lonely wood,
And look up to see if the God I serve has seen and understood.
I'll watch the wood-ash whitened by the licking yellow tongues,
I'll watch the wood-smoke rising, sweet smoke that stings the lungs,
See the leaping, laughing watch fire throw shadows on the grass,
See the rushes bend and tremble, to let the shadows pass,
While my soul flies through the forest, back a trail of weary years--
And the clouds, as if in pity, shed their tears.
Oh, I do not want their pity for a trail that's closed behind,
Though all the things on earth combine to play upon the mind,
I must keep on riding forward to a goal I'll never find,
What matter the eyes have seen so much that the soul is colour-blind?
Philip Britts, 1934
Mary
Can a man think of Love when Jealousy
Sears the retreating soul within him?
Yes, for Love is not a fragile thing,
Not a child in the heart.
Love must be hot with the glory of strength:
At the bidding of Jealousy, unwelcome guest,
We look at Love through green glasses.
Then Love, who is lusty and strong,
Smashes the glass before our eyes-
Strides into our wounded hearts with a sword of reproach;
And only when we feel that the heart will break,
Love, the strong, the sweet, the terrible, becomes
Our rescuer and not our conqueror.
Philip Britts, 1935
Bruderhof
We see mad scientists watching tubes and flasks,
Staring at fluids with the power of death;
Mad engineers that work out guns of steel
And make great bombs that carry poison breath.
We hear mad statesmen speak of peace thro' arms,
We read wild praises of the power that rends;
And in the pulpits of the Church of Christ
Mad clergy tell us to destroy our friends.
We hear the drone of planes that townsmen build
To scatter death and terror in the town;
And hear the roar of tanks on country roads
That will mow down our brothers, crush them down.
Lest this should happen, still more ships are launched;
To ward off war, we spend more gold on arms,
And lest the voice of Christ is heard to groan,
We sound, more loudly, still more wild alarms.
Philip Britts
Bruderhof News
Now is the harvest of Death.
Now the red scythe-blade of slaughter
Sweeps through the children of Eve.
We stand in a circle of silence,
The wings of the Reaper are hissing--
And what could our speaking achieve?
And we, as we stand in our silence
Hear the laugh of the sower of fate,
Who scattered the seed in the hearts of the tribes
And who reaps now the hate.
Only the music of a wild wind in the trees,
Or the rumble of thunder, the roar of the rain,
The shouting of demons who ride on the storm-winds of wrath
Can tell of the tempest that howls like a wolf on the plain;
Where the earth carried wheat, and the waters were sweet,
But now stink with the blood of the slain.
Philip Britts, 1940
Megan R.
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
Megan R.
We must wait at home, dear,
Baby and I,
Until the blazing harvest sun
Has left the sky.
Father is a fieldsman;
When you were born
He started out to harvest in
The shining corn.
You shall grow the corn, babe,
When you are strong,
Working by your father's side
The daylight long.
Tall and thick the corn stands,
Golden and bright,
And we must wait for father's step
Until tonight.
Written on the occasion of the birth of his son,
Simon Philip, and set to music by Sylvia Beels.
Philip Britts, 23 January 1943
Bruderhof Communities
There are ghosts that haunt my gardens,
Spirits that walk gently, on quiet evenings,
When the light is soft, in the time of silences.
They are not vengeful ghosts, not fearful things,
Dumb with the memory of lusts and crimes;
They are the gentle dead, still loth to leave
The walks they loved in other times.
Sometimes, as I turn round, beneath the conifers,
I see a pale young lady, walking, slow,
With head down, clad in blue and green and white,
Past the narcissi in their nodding row,
And past the patch of hyacinths,
She walks in our box borders.
Her head is bent, her hair is loose,
And she lingers, stooping low,
To catch the fragrance of blue spruce,
That sweetened the garden, long ago.
No doubt she watched her love come and depart,
Blowing a kiss from the tall, creepered tower,
They must have walked these gardens heart in heart,
And now perpetuate the tender hour.
Sometimes I see them both, walking together,
In the change of season, in the showery weather,
Slowly, slowly, up the long border path,
And as they walk, grow older with each pace,
Till, ere they reach the gate into the meadow
They totter, and she leans on him: there is a shadow
Like the shade of trembling ferns, upon her face.
Philip Britts, 1939
Jim
How rich is a man who is free from Security.
How rich is a man who is free from Wealth.
How rich is a man who is free from Victory.
How rich is a man who is free from Health!
Philip Britts, 1940
Greg G.
Not among those who stand beneath
the cross are we,
We stand irresolute, far off,
The mighty thing to see . . . .
Philip Britts, 1941
Megan R.
(It is dangerous to seek tranquility)
Treetops tossing as the wind stamps by,
Leaves all a-chatter with a rush of song,
Wild birds swinging in a reeling sky,
Fierce is the wind and his feet are strong.
Below and away from the feet that pound,
Hushed is the glade, and dim and cool,
Pale flower-clusters star the ground,
Light on the edge of the forest pool.
Grey-brown shadows in the soft green shade,
Silently glide the deer to drink,
Tree ferns tremble in the air afraid,
Crouches a tiger at the brink.
Rest and peace in the glades retreat,
Red death lurking where the leaves are long.
Treetops bowing to the winds rough feet,
Birds all a-clamour with a clash of song.
Philip Britts, August 1946
Mary
"Whenever I meet a man," he said,
"I look him low, I look him high,
To see if a certain gleam is born,
An inner light, deep in the eye,
The light of eyes that see in growing corn
Not only grain, not only golden bread,
But sweet and plain, the fingerprints of God.
What for a man is it, who cares
Only for harvest and the threshing feast,
Sees the reward before the growth of Love,
Who looks impatient at the slim green spears
That tremble under grey October skies,
And scorns all but the ripened head.
God is not seen only at harvest time,
But He is here, in winter-sleeping sod,
And half His glory stands about our feet
In the low lines of green young growing wheat."
Philip Britts, 1940
Werner
The shadows of three men sowing watermelons
Grew very long behind them as they crept down the field.
A pair of parrots flying homeward
Shouted noisily to them to look at the sky.
But they continued stooping and dibbling the seed in the earth.
In this way they grew a number more melons,
And missed what was written in that particular sunset,
Which had never been written before,
And, of course, will never be written again.
Philip Britts, November 1, 1941
G Banks
I have known fear,
And sickness of heart--
Not the fear of men,
But a fear apart
That poisons the breath
(Not the fear of death
When the thunders start,)
Not evil to me do I fear
(I would drink the gall,)
But that someone is struck who is dear
When the bludgeons fall;
And the judgment of God
Which I fear, and must fall in the end,
In striking me down (which is just)
Strikes also my friend . . . .
I have cried in despair
To the skies at night:
God who art there
In glory and light,
Check not Thy hand,
Deal Thy judgment to me
Who so arrogant stand
And will hear not nor see.
But one mercy I beg
From the fear in my heart:
Deal Thy judgment on me--
Let my friend stand apart.
Philip Britts, 1941
Bruderhof
I have stood all day on sodden earth,
Beneath the heavy hand of weeping skies,
And golden fancies hammered at my brain,
An endless count of flying wonder-thoughts,
Pell-mell upon each other, and again
Forgotten, like the dance of dragonflies.
Philip Britts, 1940
Megan R.
I sing of the eternal people,
And the eternal city,
The city of the eternal warfare
Which is the embassy of the ultimate peace.
When a nation sallies against another nation,
With spears or muskets, cannon or tanks,
For a year or for a generation,
That is not the true warfare,
Nor is that the eternal city.
And when one has proved itself the stronger,
And politicians ponder terms of peace,
And armies are recalled, and penalties are paid,
And the normal national life begins again
In pride or in humiliation,
That is not the true peace, the ultimate peace.
The combat ends and slowly is forgotten,
The political peace is sooner or later broken,
And sooner or later the city and the people become only a memory.
But the eternal people,
In the eternal city,
They wage the eternal warfare
Because they are the embassy of the ultimate peace.
Is the eternal city full of gilded towers?
Are the streets broad and paved with marble?
Is she defended by gates of steel that endure?
And are her palaces of polished gold?
And the eternal people, are they strong?
Are they comely, are they stately in their walk?
Are they keener of intellect than other men,
And have they greater courage?
No, but the eternal city is other than this,
And the eternal people are other than this.
At times the city is a group of plaster cottages,
At times the city is built of wood with roofs of grass,
At times the city is a circle of tents pitched by a river.
At times the city is a clearing in a forest, with
watch-fires but no houses.
And the eternal people are as other people,
No taller, no braver, no stronger, no cleverer.
In the eternal people many are weak.
Many are slow-thinking, many are timid.
The eternal people are as other people,
Only their eyes are more like the eyes of children,
Shining with the freedom of the eternal city.
Then how is it that this people is eternal?
And how is it that this city is eternal?
Why do they not pass into oblivion,
As all cities and all people pass at last into oblivion?
They are the eternal people
And it is the eternal city
Because they wage the eternal warfare,
Because they are the embassy of the ultimate peace.
They are not strong in themselves, the eternal people,
If they were strong they would be proud
And all that which is proud will perish.
Yet mighty things are done through them,
The hearts of haughty governments are moved,
Deadly seas are sailed across in safety,
And what is mightier than all this--
In the midst of ruinous war they are at peace.
The life of the eternal people
Lies in the hand of the invisible King,
The King who has neither castle nor court,
Who compels no man to be his subject,
Who compels no man to obey his word.
Even this King, the invisible King,
He is the King of the eternal people.
The true warfare, the eternal warfare,
Is not the striving of men against each other,
It is the war of the creator against the destroyer,
It is the war of the will to life against the will to death,
The war of love against hate
The war of unity against separation.
It is the war of the invisible King against the darkness.
Those who wage this war, they are the eternal people
And their city is the eternal city.
And the ultimate peace is the overthrow of all destructive forces,
It is the establishment of a new order upon the earth,
An order where love reigns over every aspect of life,
Over the relationships of all men to one another,
Over the actions of all men, towards themselves and
towards all things outside themselves.
And this peace is established in the hearts of
the eternal people,
Because they are the embassy of the ultimate peace,
For which they wage the eternal warfare.
The war of the eternal people is a hard war,
And to be one of them is a hard undertaking.
For the enemy attacks each one in his own heart,
And must be fought continually, each in his own blood.
And the hardness of the fight is that the enemy attacks
in disguise.
He comes as a friend or a champion,
And is beautiful or desirable,
But he is a traitor, and his beauty turns to hideousness.
And the problem of the eternal people is to recognise the enemy,
For when he is revealed his power is broken.
This is the victory of the invisible King,
That he unmasks the enemy, and overcomes him.
When the enemy seeks to divide them,
When the enemy tries to deceive them,
He is stronger than the enemy.
And with his burning love he drives him out.
The weapons of the eternal people are not carnal weapons,
The weapons of the eternal people are the will to Truth,
The will to unity and the means to unity which is Love
And above all, loyalty to the invisible King.
The strength of the eternal people is that they are
not divided against each other.
Only that which is undivided is eternal.
Part of the eternal city may be in one country,
And part may be a thousand miles away.
It is not a matter of space,
It is a matter of the unity of heart and mind against
the common enemy.
And the enemy of the eternal people is the Prince of Death.
These are the commands of the invisible King:
That they are not divided against each other,
Either in spiritual pride or in material competition,
But that each sees in the other his comrade in arms,
And has perfect love towards him and helps him in the fight,
And that they be all brothers fighting side by side
the eternal warfare.
And the measure of the strength of the eternal people
Is the measure of their obedience to the invisible King.
Those who stand beneath the banner of the invisible King,
They are the eternal people.
They are the people of the eternal warfare,
and they are the embassy of the ultimate peace.
Attributed to Philip Britts
Megan R.
There's a crowing of cocks, and a paling of stars,
And the hours of the watch are far on;
There's a flush in the east, and the pipe of a bird,
And the last of the starlight is gone.
The darkness thins out, and the new world appears,
The watchman prepares to depart,
Let him go to his rest with the sun on his face,
And the splendour of stars in his heart.
Philip Britts, 1940
Bruderhof Communities
I stood in flowers, knee high,
Dreaming of gentleness,
Dreams, in the promise of a shining sky
That I should make a garden from a wilderness;
I would subdue the soil and make it chaste,
Making the desert bear, the useless good,
With my own strength I would redeem the waste,
Would grow the lily where the thistle stood.
The while I dreamed, the flowers were sweet,
Now that the flowers are gone, it seems
They never bloomed except in dreams.
There are no blossoms at my feet,
The bald blue sky is lustreless,
The flowers had never been, except in dreams,
It was a dream . . . this is a wilderness.
My eyes are tired of the skyline,
My feet are tired of the sand,
I am as dried of laughter as the sun-scorched land,
As the staff in my sun-scorched hand.
Had I not dreamed so long,
Not dreamed of so much beauty, or such grace,
Mayhap I could have trod a quieter path,
With other men, in a green, quieter place . . . .
My ears are tired of the silence,
My heart is tired of the toil.
If I sowed any seeds, they have perished,
Nothing is living in the soil.
From the dewless morn I have been here,
Now the day is nearly through;
The tyrant sun sinks down at last,
The colours fade, the sun departs.
Was there a glory--or was that a dream?
I hear, or think I hear, faint music:
Not the song of birds, which are fled from me,
Not the humming of bees, on dream blossom,
Not the voices of happy men . . .
I strain to catch the sound again . . . .
Oh! Let the music swell, slowly,
Mould a stately music, to soothe the pulse of the earth,
Develop the theme.
Do I pray? or hope? or dream?
I do not know if I dreamed I stood in a garden.
(Was it a dream, the flowers' caress?)
Or did I dream of the sun and the sand--
Am I dreaming this wilderness?
Philip Britts, 1936
Bruderhof Communities
The wisdom of the prophet
And his words of gold
Surged around my brain
And away they rolled;
Though I set my mind to hear them
They brushed at me and flew,
Because my spirit did not feel
The things the prophet knew.
The wisdom of the prophet
And his ringing words
Said less to my ears
Than the song of birds,
Because all the bird-wings
Beat about my ears
With sea winds and breakers
And loneliness and tears.
I went out from the prophet
And his drumming word,
Groping in the darkness,
Shaken and stirred;
For my spirit was full
Of the sad wild birds
Of people grieving
Beyond all words.
I could not longer listen
To the prophet's words,
For my ears were filled
By the wings of birds,
Of weary, living people
Beyond the weary sea,
Bleeding and crying
Because they are not free.
Philip Britts, 2 November, 1941
Bruderhof
When I have grown to strength of heart and mind,
Then let me still lie helpless on Thy knee,
Still raise my empty hands towards Thy face,
And let Thy love, alone, smile out from me.
I am but earth unless Thou work in me
And make my earth bear fruit in every part,
Wound me, then, deeply with Thy plough of love,
And let there be no fallow in my heart.
Philip Britts, 1940
Megan R.
It mattered not that she was fair
For youth is always fair to see.
Nor was it simply she was gay
For what so gay as youth can be?
And if she moved a queen among the girls
It was not by her coronet of curls.
But in some way she stood apart,
Some subtle virtue raised her high,
An inclination of the head,
A gleam within the eye.
You might have guessed them ermine
From the way she wore her clothes;
She picked the humble buttercup
As though it were a rose:
Charm followed her in every step,
She had a way of making gentle weather;
She stood amid the privet of the town
With that same grace she might have stood on heather.
Philip Britts, 1935
Werner
Not in fear and desperation,
But in stubborn silent protest,
In the earth we laid our baby:
All the calm and tragic mothers,
All the broken-hearted maidens,
All the solemn-visaged brothers;
And we heaped the earth upon her
In a stubborn silent protest.
Presently we turned and left her,
Lonely on the forest margin,
Turned and went once more to combat
With the Prince of Death and Darkness-
Not as they whose cause is hopeless,
But in certain expectation,
Fighting on towards the Kingdom
And the overthrow of Evil.
Philip Britts, May 1942
Mary
Where the air is clean,
Life is the same sweet life,
As it e'er hath been.
God comes down in the rain,
And the crops grow tall.
This is the country's faith,
And the best of all.
Precedes an undated series of essays entitled "The Same Sweet Life."
Philip Britts
Jim
In the dark, damp earth.
Nourish our need,
God of all birth.
Thou art the seed
That we bury now.
Thou art our need,
God of the plough.
Bury the spark
Of our own desire
Deep in the dark,
God of the fire.
After the night
When the fight is won,
Thou art the light,
God of the sun.
This was found among Philip's papers a few weeks before little Philip was
born, May 13, 1949.
Bruderhof Communities
The boy there,
Standing, staring,
Staring at the bird--
Eyes alight, breath held,
Bare toes gripping the sand,
Wonder-held.
The boy there,
Standing, staring,
That's my son . . . .
A sound from me
And he will turn,
Dart to me:
"Daddy, did you see?"
This is believed to be Philip Britts' last poem, written at the end of
October, or early November, 1948, when he and Simon saw a toucan together.
Megan R.
Who haunts the virgin wood;
Only when one is miles away in dream,
Sometimes, on looking up, there is a man
Standing at the edge of the trees,
Staring with soft and lonely eyes
Towards the village.
Then with a little gesture that might mean
"Such things are not for me"
He turns and plunges in the forest gloom.
And village people, who are bold
To walk in the harmless glades on the forest fringe,
Have found, sometimes, a bunch of little flowers
That none of them has ever seen before . . . .
They are the sweet white flowers that grow
Only in the depths of the forest, in the gloom,
Where the villagers never go.
Philip Britts, 16 August 1941
Bruderhof
In this silence,
Speak the stars
And speaks the sky,
"Reconsider,
O my people,
All the things
You know me by."
"Honey-bee
And woods of orange,
Pineapple
And rice and maize,
Softest wings
Of sleep at night-time,
Strength for labour
Through the days."
"Not that you
Should probe too deeply,
Burning mind
On mystery,
Not that you
Should strive to reach me,
Climbing by
Intensity."
"What have you
To offer to me?
What is it
You feel I ask?
Reconsider,
O my people,
What you see
To be your task."
"Not that you
Forever harp on
Things so clear
To me above--
Simple are my
Expectations.
All I ask
Is that you Love."
"Love is clear
And Love is simple,
Quick to help
And slow to cease,
Love is Gratitude
And Patience
Love is Kindness
Love is Peace."
Philip Britts, 4 December, 1941
Bruderhof Communities wrote:
> Philip Britts (1917 - 1949) joined the Cotswold Bruderhof in England
> shortly before the Second World War. He had studied horticulture and
> loved to work in field and garden. The depth of his thought and faith,
> his dedication to the common life of peace and brotherhood, and his
> hope of the Kingdom of Justice found expression in his poetry through
> his love for nature and hard work.
>
>
Megan R.
In steel-like talons to the unknown hills
And is a lost speck only, in the sky--
That is not the chief thing;
Or that I did not have the strength or skill
To drive off the attacker, to defeat
Merciless claw and swift unerring beak
Or shattering wing;
But my fist is smashed and bloody
And my arm is a scarlet rag,
Showing I struck at the eagle . . .
And that is the chief thing.
Philip Britts, 13 December, 1941
Jim
And step naked into the blackness
And the roaring storm,
Will Thy abundant rain wash me,
Wash away some of this grime,
Making my soul cleaner?
And will it be done
Through the streams of Thy rain,
Or because I cast away fear
And stepped from my tent to the storm
Unafraid?
Or will it be because I heard
A voice in my heart, urging
Be clean, be clean,
And obeyed?
If I rise in the dawn,
And climb slowly into the hill-top
With an empty heart,
Will Thy exquisite sky fill me,
Fill with a wonder my heart,
Making the soul stronger?
And will it be done
Through Thy colour and light,
Or because I sought and was sure of
The beauty that You would reveal
To my eyes?
Or will it be because you have seen
How bare is my heart, expecting
The sun, the sun,
To arise?
Philip Britts, 25 December, 1941
Megan R.
Somewhere above the tossing palm trees,
Between the storm and the stars,
In the unknowable darkness
Between us and the stars?
Or do the storm and stars and all the dark
Lie between us and you
Who wait, an eye and an intention
Beyond the hope and the fear?
I am the eye of the woman,
The hand of the man,
And the mouth of the children
Who stand, loving, around you.
I am the love they offer you,
While you stand peering into the storm
And see only a darkness and a shadow;
I am here.
Philip Britts, 31 December, 1941
Bruderhof
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
Megan R.
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 Communities
The heavens gather now.
New life for tree and grass,
Work for the plough.
On high in forest tops
The eager bees do wing,
See how the mighty trees
Blossom and sing.
All life is joy again,
The longest drought shall pass,
Bringeth sweet drenching rain,
Life for the grass.
Philip Britts, June 1945
Jim
I sent my soul searching the songs of the ages,
The hearts of all poets were bared to my eyes,
Though I read golden thoughts as I turned golden pages
The echoes fell faint as of songs that were sighs.
I weighed up the greatness of all who were greatest
Whom the world had called strong and the world had called wise,
But the song that they sang from the first to the latest
Fell back from the portals of Thy Paradise.
Philip Britts, 1934
Adam
With thy gates of pearl,
How near thou art.
Who yet did see the gleam,
As this tender babe
Became for us a bridge
To the new Kingdom.
How all are now enriched.
Who in the eternal heights
See the distant doors
That God unlocks.
The love of God pours down upon us,
It lowers to the grave
The earthly robe of dust.
What is not hallowed to the light must perish;
Those hallowed of the light
Stand joined in one,
Purified in the light of God,
Until the dawn
Banish the old death,
And they arise;
'Til from the halls of Light,
The shining city of God
Descends to us.
Then shall be given anew
What death once took from us,
And all the joy
In the ocean of God's love
Knows no more ending.
Found among Philip Britt's papers after his death, and shortly before the
birth of his son Philip, on May 23, 1949.
Mary
The timid kiss of the winter sun,
The waiting faith of the naked trees,
The breath of a day so well begun,
Take what you will and leave me these.
Leave me my love and leave me these,
Leave me a soul to feel them still,
Better to be a tramp, who sees,
Than a monarch blind upon a hill.
Philip Britts, 1936
Megan R.
It's good to plough when the earth is soft
And the furrows smoothly go;
When the tilth is fine and the weather fair,
It is good to sow.
So when the earth is baked to brick
And wind is dry and sun is bright,
It's better to bide at home and wait,
And put your harness right.
It's better to wait your time, and make
Good order for when you start.
Then all day long, when the time is right,
Plough with a thankful heart.
Philip Britts, Christmas 1941
Bruderhof Communities
We have not come like Eastern kings,
With gifts upon the pommel lying,
Our hands are empty, and we came
Because we heard a baby crying.
We have not come like questing knights,
With fiery swords and banners flying.
We heard a call and hurried here--
The call was like a baby crying.
But we have come with open hearts
From places where the torch is dying.
We seek a manger and a cross
Because we heard a baby crying.
Philip Britts, Christmas 1939
G Banks
Behind the mountains of imagination,
Screened off by passing mirth and passing tears,
The mind of mortal man is holding unawares
The harvest of a million weary years.
Some time, some place, some unsuspected dreamer
Will catch an echo of the far refrain,
And by his visions in a night of watching,
Will break the misty barriers of the brain.
His song shall shake the souls of politicians,
And while the craven church still watches, dumb,
The hands of men shall grasp at tools, not weapons,
And womanhood shall sing that Peace has come.
Philip Britts, 1936