He who labours, prays.
quote by Saint Aurelius Augustine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Labours On
Back thru time, I know
Youre calling me
For a saviour--i know
Its my destiny
So Im gonna rise
Face the morning sun
Feel it calling me,
Wanting me
Believes in me
Love labours on
Love labours on
Back thru time, I know
Im a wanted man
Oh momma, I know
Gave me grace, not to lose
So Im gonna get up--cleansed
Face the morning rain
I feel it touching me,
Healing me
Believes in me
Love labours on
Love labours on
Feel it wanting me,
Knowing me,
Believe, yeah
Love labours on
Love labours on
Ooh
Ooh
Are you wanting,
I know cuz youre calling me, yeah
Are you needing,
Yeah cuz you need from me
Wanting me,
Reaching me,
Wanting me,
Knowing me,
Believes in me.
Love labours on
Love labours on
Love labours on
Love labours on
Labours on
Love labours on
Love labours on
song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On Those Days One Prays
When one prays,
A seeking from the outside...
Begins within!
To identify miracles,
One must sit in a quietness...
That has come to visit upon request.
When one prays...
The mind should be at rest.
When one prays,
A thankfulness should be first expressed.
With an appreciation for those blessings,
One sometimes ignores but gets!
When one prays.
When one prays,
A seeking from the outside...
Begins within!
To identify miracles,
One must sit in a quietness...
That has come to visit upon request.
When one prays...
The mind should be at rest.
With a confession professed,
As a thankfulness one expresses.
On those days one prays.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Heretic Prays
the heretic kneels
by the old willow tree
alone in the darkness
with life....
and prays....
with no need for salvation,
redemption, or change....
no thought of self,
of need and want,
he just lets go...
and prays....
nameless, part of all....
formless, evolving forms.....
from soul to spirit....
becoming....
the scripture of small creatures,
the hymns of the wind.....
eternity unleashed in each moment.....
the heretic prays!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Somebody Prays
Somebody is happy
Somebody is fun
Somebody enjoys life
Then the devil puts them on the run.
Somebody has a problem
Somebody gets involved
Somebody reaches grace
Somebody prays a prayer
And the problem is dissolved.
Thanks to somebody who prays
That maybe doesn't even know me.
But prays a prayer daily
For all whom they do not see.
Thanks for your encouragement
Thank you
For some days life gets odd.
Thanks for caring about me
Thanks for knowing God.
poem by Cecelia Weir
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Mother Teresas Prays!
A CHILD is borne with aids,
her only hope, mother teresas
beatiful tears.
A WOMEN crying for help, starts
to cut her wrist, still mother teresa
prays.
A MAN sells him self for drugs, still
mother teresa prays.
A world with to many guns,, still
mother teresa prays....
poem by David Gerardino
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~mother~
To love and protect from all things bad,
To project her love into your heart,
Her life is yours just like her heart,
She prays your good,
She prays your smart,
She prays you'll never break her heart,
Of all the things you ever do...
remember a mothers love...for me and for you.
poem by Justagirl Mackay
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The friar who prays in god's name prays for two.
Eventide Planting
I dare to plant a seed today
full of dreams, full of promise
though I die before it fruits
the eater's joy may my labours bring.
I've come to eat so much of fruits
not knowing how they came to be
some planter's labours, my heart has fed
their toils, their pains, my joy has brought.
And so today I dare to plant
though I die before it fruits
someday, somehow, others would taste
may their own joy, my labours bring.
poem by Michael Nkwocha
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A Mahomedan Ship Fireman
UP from the oven pit,
The hell where poor men toil,
At the sunset hour he comes
Clean-clothed, washed from soil.
On the fo'c's'le head he kneels,
His face to the hallowed West.
He prays, and bows and prays.
Does he pray for death and rest?
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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Every true prayer is a prayer of the Church; by means of that prayer the Church prays, since it is the Holy Spirit living in the Church, Who in every single soul 'prays in us with unspeakable groanings'.
quote by Edith Stein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Choosing To Be Fooled
Crazed are these days.
And everybody prays they'll go away.
But when they came and visited,
Few among them resisted.
Crazed are these days.
And everybody prays they'll go away.
But when they came and visited,
Few among them resisted.
And sitting idle while they arrived,
Were people in denial.
Criticizing those who said...
'Be prepared for the days ahead.
Ignore the facts!
But try to get them off your back.
Ignore the facts!
And you'll lay awake in bed instead.'
Deluded are the people...
Choosing to be fooled.
Crazed are these days.
And everybody prays they'll go away.
But when they came and visited,
Few among them resisted.
Crazed are these days.
That everybody prays will go away,
With ignoring of facts.
Trying to get them off their backs fast.
Deluded are the people...
Choosing to be fooled.
With a wish,
To be fools.
Dumbed-down.
Dumbee doo dumbee doo bee doo.
Dumbed-down.
Dumbee doo dumbee doo bee doo.
Dumbed-down.
Dumbee doo dumbee doo bee doo.
Dumbed-down...
Dumbee doo down bee doo bee doo.
Come softly,
Fleeced sheep.
Stay sleeping,
And weep.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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That Pretty Girl in the Army
“Now I often sit at Watty’s, when the night is very near
With a head that’s full of jingles – and the fumes of bottled beer;
For I always have a fancy that, if I am over there
When the Army prays for Watty, I’m included in the prayer.
“It would take a lot of praying, lots of thumping on the drum,
To prepare our sinful, straying, erring souls for Kingdom Come,
But I love my fellow-sinners! And I hope upon the whole,
That the Army gets a hearing when it prays for Watty’s soul.
poem by Henry Lawson
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When The `Army' Prays For Watty
When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star,
Hide the picture on the signboard over Doughty's Horse Bazaar;
When the last rose-tint is fading on the distant mulga scrub,
Then the Army prays for Watty at the entrance of his pub.
Now, I often sit at Watty's when the night is very near,
With a head that's full of jingles and the fumes of bottled beer,
For I always have a fancy that, if I am over there
When the Army prays for Watty, I'm included in the prayer.
Watty lounges in his arm-chair, in its old accustomed place,
With a fatherly expression on his round and passive face;
And his arms are clasped before him in a calm, contented way,
And he nods his head and dozes when he hears the Army pray.
And I wonder does he ponder on the distant years and dim,
Or his chances over yonder, when the Army prays for him?
Has he not a fear connected with the warm place down below,
Where, according to good Christians, all the publicans should go?
But his features give no token of a feeling in his breast,
Save of peace that is unbroken and a conscience well at rest;
And we guzzle as we guzzled long before the Army came,
And the loafers wait for `shouters' and -- they get there just the same.
It would take a lot of praying -- lots of thumping on the drum --
To prepare our sinful, straying, erring souls for Kingdom Come;
But I love my fellow-sinners, and I hope, upon the whole,
That the Army gets a hearing when it prays for Watty's soul.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Warrior's Fear
The warrior waits, with fear.
Fear of never returning
Fear of losing all he has.
Fear for his family, without him.
Fear of letting them down.
Fear of letting his captain down.
Fear of letting his friends down.
The warrior kneels to the ground.
He prays, prays for a long time.
The warrior stands up.
He feels no longer fear, but security.
The warrior charges into battle,
Determined.
Ready.
No longer fearful.
Never to return.
Nothing Can Match It
When one prays
They seek safe passage.
Nothing can match it,
When a faith stays.
And,
When one prays
They seek safe passage.
Nothing can match it
When a faith prayed stays.
Hope,
Nothing can match it.
With a faith.
Nothing can match it.
To initiate
Debate.
And,
When a prayer goes to the root
The feeling felt is absolute.
When one prays...
They seek safe passage.
Nothing can match it,
When a faith stays.
Hope,
Nothing can match it.
With a faith.
Nothing can match it.
To initiate
Debate.
And,
When a prayer goes to the root.
The feeling felt is absolute.
And,
When one prays.
They seek safe passage.
Nothing can match it...
When a faith prayed stays.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Luxor Of Luxuries
Thy wealth is of thy labours!
Thy luxury is of the works of thy labours!
Thou who has never taken from any cunningly!
Thy who has never gone a-plundering!
Thou who has never taken from any his earnings forcefully!
Thou whose bread and wine is just!
Thy luxury pleases me!
Let not my bread and wine be from plunderings!
Let not my meat be gotten thievery!
Thy kind of wealth is my desire!
Nay! On thy table, there be not the meat for animals!
In thy cup, there be not wine from the orchards of inferiors!
Thy wealth is wealth indeed!
For there be no stains of paupery thereof!
Luxor! Oh luxor! !
Give to me of thy wealth!
That i mayest hold up my head amongst men!
That i may say boldly!
I am of luxor the great sun that shines upon all of his wealth of light!
To thee oh luxor! My heart calls out!
I am well as well!
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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Many a man labours for the day he will never live to see.
He labours in vain who tries to please everybody.
Work
Work never killed anyone,
Smithers said, a fair day’s
work for a fair day’s pay.
You continued to paint
the wall, your hand rising
and falling with the brush.
Tell that to those who died
in Auschwitz and other camps
or the archipelago of gulags
in Russia, you moodily replied.
Those were foreigners in
different times and different
places, he said, your average
person never died from the
labours of over work.
The paint was an awful green,
the wall was bland, above,
a window allowing dim light.
Some stilled died from labours
pushed to the limits, you sighed.
Smithers scratched his ass
and said, there’s always those
who’ve shirked and died.
You stood back watching
the paint dry, on a freshly
painted white glossed door,
was caught a fly, wriggling in
the stickiness, waiting to die.
poem by Terry Collett
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Differences
My neighbor lives on the hill,
And I in the valley dwell,
My neighbor must look down on me,
Must I look up?--ah, well,
My neighbor lives on the hill,
And I in the valley dwell.
My neighbor reads, and prays,
And I--I laugh, God wot,
And sing like a bird when the grass is green
In my small garden plot;
But ah, he reads and prays,
And I--I laugh, God wot.
His face is a book of woe,
And mine is a song of glee;
A slave he is to the great 'They say,'
But I--I am bold and free;
No wonder he smacks of woe,
And I have the tang of glee.
My neighbor thinks me a fool,
'The same to yourself,' say I;
'Why take your books and take your prayers,
Give me the open sky;'
My neighbor thinks me a fool,
'The same to yourself,' say I.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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