Twelfth Step

I should turn over my life to God, and teach others the way; Yet I must do it alone, and I cannot. I have no Aaron's rod which will bud at my saying; I cannot command God nor even entreat Him That He may help my fellow-sufferers in the way. I hear the whir of a motor and the cheery goodnight, And the voice of one of the group; You will go 'way across the fields and valleys And past the lighted windows where there is happiness and sorrow, And you will stop, And there upon a bed, perhaps, there will be one in trouble, Whose wife or whose brother's anxious face Tells you a tale of pain, bewilderment and desperation. You will speak comforting words, And say a prayer of wisdom and strength and serenity; And out of the aching, retching, black and purple depths, Will come an echo of response and some coherence In the hunger to be helped. You will bring tidiness of dress and spirit to his will, Or perhaps take him, at his brother's urging And your friend's of the fraternity, To some informal conclave that I know so well; And half aware, he'll hear of the power of men, Through God, to help their fellows. He will come home, much talked to and much comforted-- Somewhat confused, but still much comforted-- Clutching a bar of hope; Though insubstantial, hope withal. You will return elated, Matching your prayerful wish to someone else's prayerful wish; As you whir through the night, The sound of rubber of the asphalt grinds out fulfillment, The lights are less, the stars impersonal-- Indifferent, it seems, to that bright caravan Whose luminous eyes pierce the dark curtain of the lowering night. Within are hope and rapture and quiet confidence, And mutual congratulations for your work, and you to them For having let you serve the Lord and His unhappy child. Those men of mystery know of magnanimity, Are still of flesh and blood.