O what we must suffer for the sake of God's church! said the abbot, when the roast fowl burned his fingers.
Related quotes
Ch 03 On The Excellence Of Contentment Story 19
I never lamented about the vicissitudes of time or complained of the turns of fortune except on the occasion when I was barefooted and unable to procure slippers. But when I entered the great mosque of Kufah with a sore heart and beheld a man without feet I offered thanks to the bounty of God, consoled myself for my want of shoes and recited:
‘A roast fowl is to the sight of a satiated man
Less valuable than a blade of fresh grass on the table
And to him who has no means nor power
A burnt turnip is a roasted fowl.’
The Pan Of Sorrows
I will give you the grain of tears,
Roast my sorrows in your pan,
O, tender of the fire.
Tender of the fire, branch of magnolia,
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
I am late already,
The shadows are fading,
The cattle have returned,
From the forest.
The birds have raised their clamor.
Roast my sorrows in your pan,
Tender of the fire.
Hurry, be quick,
I have far to go,
To the place
Where my companions have gone.
I have heard the road to that town is difficult
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.
When my turn comes,
Your bale of kindling is damp.
Why has your earthen pan
Become flaccid?
What has gone wrong with your fire?
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.
Mine is just a handful of grains,
Roast them, and let me go on my way,
Don't leave them raw,
Roast them well.
I beg you, bring an end to this wrangling,
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.
The wind has dropped,
Its mournful weeping ended.
A sweet heat
Is rising in the stars.
My breaths are like a marriage procession
Whose bridegroom is displeased.
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
O tender of the fire.
Tender of the fire, branch of magnolia,
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
poem by Shiv Kumar Batalvi
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The Rowfant Catalogue
Friends had he many, neighbours next to none.
Rowfant and Crabbet lay few fields apart.
Each Sunday saw him here, his church drill done,
Duly stroll in to talk of books and art,
Entrapped, may--be, to share my modest tart,
Roast fowl and claret, and an evening won
In stealth from Sabbath bonds strange to his heart.
Childlike he prized these truant bursts of fun.
--Long years ago! It needs his wit to jog
Old time to life. Yet I remember well
Companioning him home to the hill's top
Keen on his books, and how he paused to tell
Eager the first news of this Catalogue.
Reading it, see, the tears come and I stop.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Sex & The Church
Though the idea of compassion
Is said to be
The union of christ
And his bride, the christian
Its all very puzzling
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
All the great mystic religions
Put strong emphasis, on
Redeame this spiritual qualities
Of sex of sex
Chrstianity
Has been pretty modern
About sex
Of sex of sex of sex of sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
I think there is a union
Between the flesh and the spirit
Its sex and the church
Sex and the church
All religions mother
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Youre Gonna Get Your Fingers Burned
(lead vocal - lenny zakatek)
Watch me closely catch my eye
If you do I beg you to remind me
Who is stronger who is weak of those who seek
And dont know where to find me
Ask me why, I dont know
You ask me why and I say
Now you see me now you dont
I thourght by now youd learned
Youre gonna get your fingers burned
Watch me closely understand
That what you see is only an illusion
If Im wrong and you are right
Then I will light your darkness with confusion
Ask me why I dont know
You ask me why and I say
Chances are youre playing with fire
I thought by now youd learned
Youre gonna get your fingers burned
Watch me closely be aware
That all I do is only to suprise you
Every move is sleight of hand
And every word is planned to mystify you
You ask me why I dont know
You ask me why and I say
Dont get fooled a second time
I thought by now youd understand
Youre gonna get your fingers burned
song performed by by Alan Parsons Project
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Secret Dreams
The abbot is a saintly man.
He praises me because I can
transcribe and illustrate the word.
So that the gospel may be heard
by other men on other lands,
He says that God has blessed my hands.
Although my frame is poor and weak
and that my talent is unique.
The holy books that I produce.
A bishop would be proud to use
From other duties I am free
save for my calligraphy.
But still pray to God each nigh
to heal my body set me right.
Because I would much rather be
outside and work laboriously.
But I must do as He commands
The abbot says he understands.
How very hard it is for me
to write of things I’ll never see.
Each man must serve as best
he can as soldier priest or husbandman.
To everyman God gave a skill
his part of Gods plan to fulfil.
We are all where we’re meant to be
and must accept this patiently.
I trust the Abbot he is wise
It’s not for us to criticise.
Where we are placed in the great scheme.
but still I am allowed to dream
and in my dreams I’m tall and strong
I need no crutch to get along.
but dreams are not reality.
I am not as I’d like to be.
So I will do the best I can.
As God expects from any man.
Although I sometimes wonder why
I must suffer from such frailty.
It is the cross I have to bear.
My faith in God I can declare
by copying his Holy Word
I wield my quill pen like a sword.
I am to frail and weak to fight
but I have strength and skill to write.
I transcribe and I illustrate
the word of God in copperplate,
in coloured inks of different hues.
My given task I can’t refuse.
The abbot says he can rely
upon my skill and my trained eye.
To train the younger monks to do
the work the way I’ve taught them to.
The time will come when I can’t see.
when old age catches up with me.
The copying will still go on
long after I am dead and gone.
Then I shall reap as I have sown.
My secret dreams to God are known.
I do not think he will condemn
my wish to be like other men.
28-Sep-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The bush fowl saw the chicken being carved up and laughed. The chicken told the bush fowl to stop laughing. For the same hands now carving up the chicken would be used to carve up the bush fowl.
Some Have Steeples. Some Don't
What do I think of church?
'Yes! '
Church?
Like in 'church' church?
'Yes! '
Well...
Some have steeples.
Some don't.
Some have people.
Some wont.
Some are religiously political.
And some are politically religious.
My vehicle is my church.
And that's all I care about.
'Oh?
So your 'car' is your church? '
Oh.
No no!
My 'body' is my church.
It is my sanctuary.
Now...
Keep in mind,
I am not devoted to keep it as pure,
As it should be.
But I do the best I can,
Not to be led away by temptation.
But everyday I pray to be forgiven,
Of those 'sins' I know I should not enjoy!
However...
You can find me anytime,
Self righteously defending...
My point of view.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Grail
In the village Bellastrino
On the craggy Tuscan hills,
Lies an old abandoned Abbey
And the Church of San Michele,
Though the village was abandoned
There are two who would not go,
The Abbot, Father Grandier,
The Priest, Don Angelo.
The Abbey on the mountain top,
The Church down in the dell,
They'd fought, these two, for twenty years
Consigning each to Hell!
For in the Church of San Michele
Before the village failed,
Down in the crypt, beneath the floor
They'd found the Holy Grail.
A bowl, fine wrought in pale green glass,
There's no room for debate,
The Templar Knights had left it in
Eleven eighty-eight,
They'd always said they would return,
In fact, they never did,
They went to challenge Saladin
And died, as they had lived!
‘It's mine, ' said Father Grandier,
‘Not so, ' said Angelo,
‘I found it and I'm keeping it,
Here, in the Church below.'
‘It should be in the Abbey, '
Father Grandier opined,
‘Its glory on the mountain top…'
‘Not so! The Grail is mine! '
For years the two had tussled
Had approached the Holy See,
The Pope thought it ridiculous
And said: ‘Don't bother me!
We have two dozen of those things,
A heap of rusty nails,
All from the Cross at Calvary
But these are peasant tales.'
A Cardinal then came to call
And tried to sort them out,
Well practiced in diplomacy
He said: ‘No need to shout!
You have a choir each, ' he said
‘Who visit in the spring,
So hold a competition here,
What better way, than sing? '
‘The better choir shall win the Grail
And keep it for a year,
Up in the Abbey's mountain top,
Or down here, if you dare.
Then sing for it each passing year,
Three judges, understood?
If one should win it three years straight
They keep the Grail for good! '
With many muttered mumblings
And hellfire in their eyes,
The Abbot and the priest said yes,
Dissembled with their lies,
They each set out to cheat their way
To keep that Holy Grail,
The Abbot got to pick each judge
He thought he couldn't fail!
The Abbey won the first two years
And held the Grail on high,
While poor Don Angelo despaired,
The time was coming nigh;
They had to sing for it once more,
He knew that if he failed,
The Abbot would, victorious,
Not let him keep the Grail.
Don Angelo went down to Rome
And brought a tenor back,
His voice like rich red Tuscan wine
To join his choir's attack,
They sang their hearts out on the day
But saw the judges feign,
And shake their heads, Don Angelo
Had nothing left to gain.
The judge stood up to name the prize,
The Abbot had his way,
The tenor stood and sang a note
Not heard since Jesu's day,
He held it long, unwavering
The Grail began to ring,
A long high-pitched reverberance,
The Grail began to sing.
A minute there, without a breath
The tenor held his tone,
And Grandier stood up, alarmed,
Let out a fervid moan,
The Grail sang on, then shattered
Fell in pieces to the floor,
The judge stood up and shook his head,
Then said - ‘The sing's a draw! '
The Abbey holds the base of it,
Up on the mountain top,
All glued together, like some vase
Bought in the Red Cross Shop.
While down there in the little Church
On a thousand Euro tips,
They're coining them a fortune with
The rim that touched his lips!
1 September 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ubiquitous Being
I look at a slice of sky and weather
from the window of my sick room
tethered to the bed by depression.
Time has come. Somebody will lay me open.
Must I suffer with deep holes in buried mind
where tears have drenched the folds?
Everyday I burned my fingers in a
blast solely to test the truth, and for
reading the verse, rubbed my eyes with a
dream.
An imperfect wave struck at the legs,
wavered me for a minute and then washed away.
Sitting within tragedy rise a song, I
understand its fugitive moans, watch
the face, I am not a martyr but
an ubiquitous being.
poem by Satish Verma
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There At The Cave Door Of The Old Church
there at the cave door of the old church
you shall enter
move farther. move some more until you reach
the dead end corner
where the windows are little squares
lighted by the small fingers of the sun
shining all day
find our some truths of squares
lights and shadows of the past of this old church
on its window and door
have you gone to the old church in Baclayon?
have you seen this old door and window?
tell me if it is true that there are no more choices
in your life.
what they are saying is not really true.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Suffer The Night
I suffer the night
When it's time to face my sadness
And all I can do is cry
I suffer the night
When I struggle to find rest
Knowing in the morning I must rise
I suffer the night
When alone in the darkness
I wonder why I am alive
I suffer the night
When I succumb to blackness
And finally stop asking why
I suffer the night
As it battles my mind
And my spirit slowly dying
I suffer the night
As I reach for the light
And pray that my death be kind
poem by Sonya Florentino
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I See You in Your Fingers
I see your fingers
I see you in your fingers
I see your history from your fingers
I feel your touch from your fingers
They don't tell a lie to me
They don't give me a fake smile
Or promising kiss
But they give me a warm hold
and tickling touch
I see you from your fingers
I see the truth from your fingers
I see you in your fingers
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Singing songs like 'The Man I Love' or 'Porgy' is no more work than sitting down and eating Chinese roast duck, and I love roast duck.
quote by Billie Holiday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Agnes And The Hill-Man
TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH.
Agnes went through the meadows a-weeping,
Fowl are a-singing.
There stood the hill-man heed thereof keeping.
Agnes, fair Agnes!
“Come to the hill, fair Agnes, with me,
The reddest of gold will I give unto thee!”
Twice went Agnes the hill round about,
Then wended within, left the fair world without.
In the hillside bode Agnes, three years thrice told o’er,
For the green earth sithence fell she longing full sore.
There she sat, and lullaby sang in her singing,
And she heard how the bells of England were ringing.
Agnes before her true-love did stand:
“May I wend to the church of the English Land?”
“To England’s Church well mayst thou be gone,
So that no hand thou lay the red gold upon.
“So that when thou art come the churchyard anear
Thou cast not abroad thy golden hair.
“So that when thou standest the church within
To thy mother on bench thou never win.
“So that when thou hearest the high God’s name,
No knee unto earth thou bow to the same.”
Hand she laid on all gold that was there,
And cast abroad her golden hair.
And when the church she stood within
To her mother on bench straight did she win.
And when she heard the high God’s name,
Knee unto earth she bowed to the same.
When all the mass was sung to its end
Home with her mother dear did she wend.
“Come, Agnes, into the hillside to me,
For thy seven small sons greet sorely for thee!”
“Let them greet, let them greet, as they have will to do;
For never again will I hearken thereto!”
Weird laid he on her, sore sickness he wrought,
Fowl are a-singing.
That self-same hour to death was she brought.
Agnes, fair Agnes!
poem by William Morris
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All In All I Know
When I asked myself the other day I came to realise I'm not ok
I've burned my fingers bad before I've seen myself through worse I'm sure
But just the same I'm really not ok
Oh how I wish that I could sleep
I try but won't just sink that deep
My fingers won't stop aching so tired yet awaken
Or should I let it all loose and just weep
I've been pacing up and down my floors I have lost all sense of time
I sometimes halt and ask myself if I'm about to loose my mind
All in all I know ::
From when I get up way past lunch time I keep on asking myself
If when the night falls hard on all I'm up to pace around again
All in all I know ::
song performed by by Quorthon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The person who has burned their fingers often asks for tongs.
The tires were scorching hot, in fact I burned my fingers on one.
quote by Malcolm Campbell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crack
I don't know what's growing on the inside
But I do know how it looks from the outside
Surprise...suffer
Never before...until you dropped
Arrogance has swept you off your feet
As you celebrate the many ends you meet
Surprise...suffer
Never before...until you dropped to the ground
In the mess you built for yourself
You bury your fingers
In the shards of what you once prided for
Carry your need to feed
Upon your shoulders
Crack
You can't support
The weight of your mistakes
Building walls in accolade of your wins
You missed the world that lives beneath
Your chin
Never before
Bury your fingers
In the shards of what you once prided for
Carry your need to feel
Upon your shoulders
Crack...you can't support
The weight of your own mistakes
song performed by by Ultraspank
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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