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Symbols
PALM Sunday at the Vatican
They celebrate with palms;
With reverence bows each holy man,
And chaunts the ancient psalms.
Those very psalms are also sung
With olive boughs in hand,
While holly, mountain wilds among,
In place of palms must stand:
In fine, one seeks some twig that's green,
And takes a willow rod,
So that the pious man may e'en
In small things praise his God.
And if ye have observed it well,
To gain what's fit ye're able,
If ye in faith can but excel;
Such are the myths of fable.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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A Little Songbird
A little songbird sang
from a treetop high.
It sang for blue skies
for within to fly.
It sang out its message
at the first rays
of the dawning day.
It also sang for peace and love
within a world filled with unrest.
It sang a joyous message
for all those who wanted to hear
that little songbird
that sang in a treetop high.
13 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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God Made A Covenant With Who Until Time Indefinite?
Sometimes the many
or the few must submit
to divine will of one.
You might have friends
in higher places
much higher than you think.
God made a covenant Genesis 15: 12-21.
with chosen children of Israel Exodus 19: 5.
to eternal time indefinite. Genesis 17: 18&19.35: 9-12.
Unlike some people
flesh delighting in own power
God cannot does not lie.
Therefore Israel trust not
in thy own bow thy own sword Psalms 44: 5-8.
the Lord is thy strength thy fortress. Psalms 31: 4 & 37: 39.
Why art thou surprised?
Is it not written?
“The kings of the earth
take their stand
And high officials
themselves have massed
together as one
against Jehovah
and against his anointed” Psalms 2: 2.
Will not the One
sitting in heaven laugh?
Will Adonai hold
these kings in derision? Psalms 2: 4.
“I myself have installed
my king on Tziyon,
my holy mountain.” Psalms 2: 4.
“Ask of me, and I will make
the nations your inheritance;
the whole wide world
will be your possession. Psalms 2: 8.
You will break them with an iron rod,
shatter them like a clay pot.” Psalms 2: 9.
Thus spoke The Lord
creator of heaven and earth.
Who can stand against you?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Lyric four bulls
Woman walked in forest alone
Met man
Man aroused appetite for her
Man ran and knocked his head on tree
Tail grew out
Hairy jaw grew in mouth
Hind legs grew
Man metamorphosed because was
Lion cannibal
Tried to attack man
Woman asked cannibal
‘’where’re your four
red and white bulls’’
‘’Do you know them’’
‘’Yes, you sing their
Oldest lyric’’
Cannibal laughed
In hoarse voice
Sang,
‘’One red and white spotted bull is sold
One red and white bull spotted is stolen
One red and white spotted bull is swallowed
One red and white spotted bull is scattered
On earth, scattered on earth, on earth, on earth……………….., cannibal sang tune of ‘’scattered on earth’’ happily for long and until
He napped and woman disappeared.
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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I woke up to a lullaby
I woke up to a lullaby
The birds sang a song for me
They sang their hearts out all the while
Dancing on the maple tree
Each bird sang a different song
That melted into one
A song full of promises
For the day that’s just begun
They sang of sorrow
Of happiness and mirth
The sang of marriage
And of birth
They sang of people laughing
And of them crying
They sang of sickness
They sang of dying
This little song
They sang for me
Made me think
Made me free
The Poet's Song
I HID in the world and sang,
And I sang so loud and long
That all the ages rang
With the music of my song.
I sang of the earth and sky,
5
I sang of the whispering seas,
I sang of the mountains high,
And I sang of the flowers and trees;
I sang of the early spring,
I sang of the dawning day,
10
I sang, for I had to sing
As the young lambs have to play;
Till heaven and earth were ringing,
And all the people heard,
And they said, "We love his singing,
15
For his song is the song of the bird."
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Bo-beh-o-bi Sang The Lips
Bo-beh-o-bi, sang the lips,
Veh-eh-o-mi, sang the glances,
Pi-eh-eh-o, sang the brows,
Li-eh-eh-ey, sang the visage,
Gzi-gzi-gzeh-o, sang the chain.
Thus on a canvas of some correspondences
Beyond dimension lived the face.
poem by Velimir Khlebnikov
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Upon The Translation Of The Psalms By Sir Philip Sidney And The Countess Of Pembroke, His Sister
ETERNAL God—for whom who ever dare
Seek new expressions, do the circle square,
And thrust into straight corners of poor wit
Thee, who art cornerless and infinite—
I would but bless Thy name, not name Thee now
—And Thy gifts are as infinite as Thou—
Fix we our praises therefore on this one,
That, as thy blessed Spirit fell upon
These Psalms' first author in a cloven tongue
—For 'twas a double power by which he sung
The highest matter in the noblest form—
So thou hast cleft that Spirit, to perform
That work again, and shed it here, upon
Two, by their bloods, and by Thy Spirit one ;
A brother and a sister, made by Thee
The organ, where Thou art the harmony.
Two that make one John Baptist's holy voice,
And who that Psalm, 'Now let the Isles rejoice,'
Have both translated, and applied it too,
Both told us what, and taught us how to do.
They show us islanders our Joy, our King ;
They tell us why, and teach us how to sing.
Make all this all three choirs, heaven, earth, and spheres ;
The first, Heaven, hath a song, but no man hears ;
The spheres have music, but they have no tongue,
Their harmony is rather danced than sung ;
But our third choir, to which the first gives ear
—For Angels learn by what the Church does here—
This choir hath all. The organist is he
Who hath tuned God and man, the organ we ;
The songs are these, which heaven's high holy Muse
Whisper'd to David, David to the Jews ;
And David's successors in holy zeal,
In forms of joy and art do re-reveal
To us so sweetly and sincerely too,
That I must not rejoice as I would do,
When I behold that these Psalms are become
So well attired abroad, so ill at home,
So well in chambers, in Thy Church so ill,
As I can scarce call that reform'd until
This be reform'd ; would a whole state present
A lesser gift than some one man hath sent ?
And shall our Church unto our Spouse and King
More hoarse, more harsh than any other, sing ?
For that we pray, we praise Thy name for this,
Which, by this Moses and this Miriam, is
Already done ; and as those Psalms we call,
—Though some have other authors—David's all,
So though some have, some may some Psalms translate,
We Thy Sidneian psalms shall celebrate,
And, till we come th' extemporal song to sing
—Learn'd the first hour that we see the King,
Who hath translated those translators—may
These their sweet learned labours all the way
Be as our tuning, that when hence we part,
We may fall in with them, and sing our part !
poem by John Donne
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Playing Guitar With David
Will I play guitar with David,
While he plays his lute and harp?
Will my harmonica sweetly answer,
Like dueling banjos played with heart?
How can I glorify my awesome God
In songs and reverent psalms,
The same way that little David did
And have creation now join along?
After Gods own heart little David was
As he killed a bear and lion.
By exercising his kingsized faith
Goliath ended up slain, and dying.
So may I play guitar with David?
Shall we praise God in harmony?
Will you all dropp by and join us,
In the choir for all eternity?
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!
My guitar now laying on the ground.
When the chorus is sung in worship,
Mens voices surpass any instrument sounds.
poem by Robert Edgar Burns
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The greatest king of Israel, King David, the author of the Psalms, sent a man out to die in battle so that he could sleep with his wife.
quote by Robert Duvall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Then?
His chosen comrades thought at school
He must grow a famous man;
He thought the same and lived by rule,
All his twenties crammed with toil;
'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?'
Everything he wrote was read,
After certain years he won
Sufficient money for his need,
Friends that have been friends indeed;
'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?'
All his happier dreams came true –
A small old house, wife, daughter, son,
Grounds where plum and cabbage grew,
Poets and Wits about him drew;
'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?'
'The work is done,' grown old he thought,
'According to my boyish plan;
Let the fools rage, I swerved in naught,
Something to perfection brought;'
But louder sang that ghost, 'What then?'
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Poet And The Children
LONGFELLOW.
WITH a glory of winter sunshine
Over his locks of gray,
In the old historic mansion
He sat on his last birthday;
With his books and his pleasant pictures,
And his household and his kin,
While a sound as of myriads singing
From far and near stole in.
It came from his own fair city,
From the prairie's boundless plain,
From the Golden Gate of sunset,
And the cedarn woods of Maine.
And his heart grew warm within him,
And his moistening eyes grew dim,
For he knew that his country's children
Were singing the songs of him,
The lays of his life's glad morning,
The psalms of his evening time,
Whose echoes shall float forever
On the winds of every clime.
All their beautiful consolations,
Sent forth like birds of cheer,
Came flocking back to his windows,
And sang in the Poet's ear.
Grateful, but solemn and tender,
The music rose and fell
With a joy akin to sadness
And a greeting like farewell.
With a sense of awe he listened
To the voices sweet and young;
The last of earth and the first of heaven
Seemed in the songs they sung.
And waiting a little longer
For the wonderful change to come,
He heard the Summoning Angel,
Who calls God's children home!
And to him in a holier welcome
Was the mystical meaning given
Of the words of the blessed Master
'Of such is the kingdom of heaven!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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This Poem is Dedicated to Karen Carpenter....Nightengale of Our Times
She was an icon in her own time
She sang like a nightingale
With the sweetest of sounds
As it cascaded through the air
Her voice was more than anyone could say
She made you cry and laugh
As she sang her songs of old
The tunes and the melodies
That made me sing and dance
From one end of the house
To the other, singing, dancing
She inspired me to dance
She inspired me to sing
And her brother that wrote
The songs she sang
Inspired me to write
The rhymes and words
That I love so well
They worked as a team
They grew from strength to strength
And inspired so many to aspire
To be just like them
poem by Kaila George
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A Credo (after the German)
For the sole edification
Of this decent congregation,
Goodly people, by your grant
I will sing a holy chant --
I will sing a holy chant.
If the ditty sound but oddly,
'Twas a father, wise and godly,
Sang it so long ago --
Then sing as Martin Luther sang,
As Doctor Martin Luther sang:
"Who loves not wine, woman and song,
He is a fool his whole life long!"
He, by custom patriarchal,
Loved to see the beaker sparkle;
And he thought the wine improved,
Tasted by the lips he loved --
But the kindly lips he loved.
Friends, I wish this custom pious
Duly were observed by us,
To combine love, song, wine,
And sing as Martin Luther sang,
As Doctor Martin Luther sang:
"Who loves not wine, woman, and song,
He is a fool his whole life long!"
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Songbird
With the voice of an angel she sang everyday
She sang everywhere we went
Someone said she could become a star
With the voice that was heaven sent
She looked up at the jewelled night sky
Wondering how far she could go
They offered a record contract
And a bit part in a west end show
She could see herself singing around the world
Packing her bags off she went
She appeared on TV, even made it into a film
She climbed each rung of the ladder
Sometimes taking several steps at a time
Parties followed one by one all along the way
Old friends she ignored and plastic new ones she made
She was riding on the crest of a wave
Nothing could stop her now
Fans grew and grew as her star shone bright
The parties still raged until one fateful night
No one could recall exactly what went wrong
Only that in the morning her voice was without a song
The doctors they all shook their heads
They pronounced she would never sing again
As the months went on her plastic friends
Disappeared like the wind
One day she looked around and everything was gone
Friends, fans, record contracts and songs
Broken and beaten she headed for home
She hoped that what she’d left in a whim
Would still be waiting there for her
As the train pulled into the station
She looked out for crowds to welcome her home
But there was no one only me
All the friends she had ignored
As she quested for fortune and fame
Moved away and never came
I smiled and took her hand as she stepped off the train
Then held it as I walked her to her family home
As the years moved on by the closer we became
Until the church bells one day rang out our names
The day after we were married
Her voice came back again
She could now challenge the birds
For who sang the sweetest song
As for fame and fortune they were long gone
She had more in her life now than an empty stage
In the fields and the meadows
Where she once sang before, she now sings again
Love can mend most anything
Even a voice that has been broken
As we walk towards our sunset
Nothing can tear us apart
We walk as one
With love and song in our heart
poem by David Harris
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A Credo
I.
For the sole edification
Of this decent congregation,
Goodly people, by your grant
I will sing a holy chant—
I will sing a holy chant.
If the ditty sound but oddly,
'Twas a father, wise and godly,
Sang it so long ago—
Then sing as Martin Luther sang,
As Doctor Martin Luther sang:
'Who loves not wine, woman and song,
He is a fool his whole life long!'
II.
He, by custom patriarchal,
Loved to see the beaker sparkle;
And he thought the wine improved,
Tasted by the lips he loved—
By the kindly lips he loved.
Friends, I wish this custom pious
Duly were observed by us,
To combine love, song, wine,
And sing as Martin Luther sang,
As Doctor Martin Luther sang:
'Who loves not wine, woman and song,
He is a fool his whole life long!'
III.
Who refuses this our Credo,
And who will not sing as we do,
Were he holy as John Knox,
I'd pronounce him heterodox!
I'd pronounce him heterodox,
And from out this congregation,
With a solemn commination,
Banish quick the heretic,
Who will not sing as Luther sang,
As Doctor Martin Luther sang:
'Who loves not wine, woman and song,
He is a fool his whole life long!'
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Prophet and The Poet: Mysteries Written In Psalms
What is wondrous Psalms?
Now a question arises?
Why is Psalms prized most
frequently quoted Old Testament
book in Holy New Testament?
Does not every verse psalm point
to Christ in glorified person
in his character ministry?
Or lead believer's thoughts
to Christ.
Are not
the psalms
the language pursuit
of a believer's heart;
thirsting for our God
rejoicing in God
mourning in sin
burdened with affliction.
We struggle with temptation
or triumph in our promised hope
in enjoyment in deliverance.
Behold the psalmist's
inspired expressions
written in Holy Spirit;
help us find God
help us to pray
aid our abilities.
Are not the psalms
praising God's
divine perfections;
mediating on God's truths
thanking God for his mercies
delighting in his ministries;
also a soul touchstone
forming a Divinely appointed
standard of experience;
through which Christians
may judge ourselves
against criteria God's?
The psalms become
familiar to our souls
a radiant rare model;
a shinning beautified
example of how we ask
God at God's throne;
of grace by path
of confession
path of petition;
path of thanksgiving
for assistance in need
for our blessed salvation.
What are wondrous Psalms?
Love letters to Divine God
written in enduring passion.
The blessed psalms
are a divine spark
fermenting Christ;
in rapture in spirit
in receptive souls
enabling new birth;
the trans-formative growth
the power of a true religion
in seeking yearning hearts.
What devout affection
is working in Christians
with the blessed psalms;
written into their hearts
written into their souls
in intensified mystery?
The psalms are infused
with holy desire or hope
bitter sorrow blessed joy;
within the psalms are words
to love calm cleanse our fears;
to clothe veil sin in salvation.
The inspired speech of the psalms
chimes in all searching receptive minds;
revealing divine personality our Gods.
Psalms an exceptional unique divine book
prayers and praises heartfelt love blessings;
offered up to divine throne of grace Gods.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Slave Singing At Midnight
Loud he sang the psalm of David!
He, a Negro and enslaved,
Sang of Israel's victory,
Sang of Zion, bright and free.
In that hour, when night is calmest,
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,
In a voice so sweet and clear
That I could not choose but hear,
Songs of triumph, and ascriptions,
Such as reached the swart Egyptians,
When upon the Red Sea coast
Perished Pharaoh and his host.
And the voice of his devotion
Filled my soul with strange emotion;
For its tones by turns were glad,
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.
Paul and Silas, in their prison,
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen.
And an earthquake's arm of might
Broke their dungeon-gates at night.
But, alas! what holy angel
Brings the Slave this glad evangel?
And what earthquake's arm of might
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night?
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Wait For Me
Wait for me; oh, wait for me
I cried out as I sailed away.
My words were lost to the wind
for you didn’t wait for me.
Years passed on so quickly by,
we grew up, got married,
but my heart still cried.
Wait for me, oh, wait for me.
Our lives moved on in directions
of which we had no control.
Our circumstances changed
within every passing year
and every so often in the wind
my plaintive cries could be heard.
Wait for me; oh. wait for me
as I had so long waited
for you to fill my empty arms.
Finally as we grew older
and all hope seemed fading fast
we met up again by chance.
My heart still sang its song,
wait for me, oh wait for me.
We met one sunny day
and as our glances caught,
we knew right away
across that crowded room.
Our love was to be again
as it was so long before.
My heart now sings a different song.
I waited for you; oh, I waited for you,
now I can sing our September song.
18 December 2008
poem by David Harris
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The Awakening
I dreamed that I was a rose
That grew beside a lonely way,
Close by a path none ever chose,
And there I lingered day by day.
Beneath the sunshine and the show'r
I grew and waited there apart,
Gathering perfume hour by hour,
And storing it within my heart,
Yet, never knew,
Just why I waited there and grew.
I dreamed that you were a bee
That one day gaily flew along,
You came across the hedge to me,
And sang a soft, love-burdened song.
You brushed my petals with a kiss,
I woke to gladness with a start,
And yielded up to you in bliss
The treasured fragrance of my heart;
And then I knew
That I had waited there for you.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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