The pinafore of the child will be more than a match for the frock of the bishop and the surplice of the priest.
quote by James Martineau
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Daughters Wish
A daughters wishes are greater then gravity,
god and nature have no words to match,
from the love of a child to the parent,
as well from a priest or politician expressing the same.
poem by Walter C. Edwards
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Life of a Roman Catholic Priest
A priest is nearest Christ;
A priest is Christ at times;
A priest is almost Christ;
A priest is most divine.
A priest is God’s shepherd;
A priest must tend to flock;
A priest must be like ‘rock’;
A priest should ne’er defrock.
A priest communes with God;
A priest draws hope from Lord;
A priest shows love of Christ;
A priest carries His Cross!
A priest is tempted too;
A priest has falls in life;
A priest falters also;
A priest has strength from Christ.
A priestly job is tough;
A priest’s life can turn rough;
A priest has strife enough,
But has to smile and laugh!
A priest helps harvest souls;
A priest has many roles;
A priest has but one goal –
To drink from Christ’s own bowl!
Pray that more priests should come;
May priests curb their freedom;
May priest usher Kingdom;
A life for Christ’s welcome.
Fondly dedicated to Rev. Fr. Xavier Claudius,
Beloved Parish priest, ‘Holy Family Church, Perundurai
Copyright by Dr John Celes 25-7-2010
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If you have a priest that is pushing social justice, go find another parish. Go alert your bishop.
quote by Glenn Beck
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I have to go on being a priest and bishop, that is, to celebrate God and what God has done in Jesus, and to offer in God's name whatever I can discern of God's perspective on the world around - something which involves both challenge and comfort.
quote by Rowan Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Remember You Saying
I am sure you forgot your words
'There were three things
I wanted to become when I was a child
a soldier
a priest
a poet'
You became a priest
with three minds
in one body
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Distracted Puritan
Am I mad, O noble Festus,
When zeal and godly knowledge
Have put me in hope
To deal with the Pope
As well as the best in the college?
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
In the house of pure Emanuel
I had my education,
Where my friends surmise
I dazel'd my eyes
With the sight of revelation.
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
They hound me like a bedlam,
They lash'd my four poor quarters.
Whilst this I endure,
Faith makes me sure
To be one of Foxes martyrs.
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
These injuries I suffer
Through antichrist's perswasion.
Take off this chain!
Neither Rome nor Spain
Can resist my strong invasion.
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
Of the beast's ten horns (God bless us!)
I have knock'd off three already;
If they let me alone
I'll leave him none;
But they say I am too heady.
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
When I sack'd the seven-hill'd city
I met the great red dragon;
I kept him aloof
With the armour of proof,
Though here I have never a rag on.
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
With a fiery sword and target,
There fought I with this monster;
But the sons of pride
My zeal deride,
And all my deeds misconster.
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
I un-hors'd the Whore of Babel
With the lance of Inspiration;
I made her stink,
And spill the drink,
In her cup of abomination.
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
I have seen two in a vision
With a flying book between them.
I have been in despair
Five times in a year,
And been cur'd by reading Greenham.
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
I observ'd in Perkins' tables
The black line of damnation;
Those crooked veins
So stuck in my brains,
That I fear'd my reprobation.
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
In the holy tongue of Canaan
I plac'd my chiefest pleasure,
Till I prick'd my foot
With an Hebrew root
That I bled beyond all measure.
Boldly I preach, I hate a cross, hate a surplice,
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
I appear'd before the Archbishop
And all the high Commission;
I gave him no grace,
But told him to his face
That he favour'd superstition.
Boldly I preach, hate a cross, hate a surplice
Mitres, copes, and rochets!
Come hear me pray nine times a day,
And fill your heads with crotchets.
poem by Richard Corbet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our Lady of the Sackcloth
There was a Priest at Philae,
Tongue-tied, feeble, and old;
And the daily prayer to the Virgin
Was all the Office he could.
The others were ill-remembered,
Mumbled and hard to hear;
But to Mary, the two-fold Virgin,
Always his voice rang clear.
And the congregation mocked him,
And the weight of the years he bore,
And they sent word to the Bishop
That he should not serve them more.
(Never again at the Offering
When the Bread and the Body are one:
Oh, never the picture of Mary
Watching him serve her Son!)
Kindly and wise was the Bishop.
Unto the Priest said he: -
“Patience till thou art stronger,
And keep meantime with me.
“Patience a little; it may be
The Lord shall loosen thy tongue
And then thou shalt serve at the Offering
As it was when we were young.”
And the Priest obeyed and was silent,
And the Bishop gave him leave
To walk alone in the desert
Where none should see him grieve.
(Never again at the Offering
When the Wine and the Blood are one!
Oh, never the picture of Mary
Watching him honour her Son!)
Saintly and clean was the Bishop,
Ruling himself aright
With prayer and fast in the daytime
And scourge and vigil at night.
Out of his zeal he was minded
To add one penance the more –
A garment of harshest sackcloth
Under the robes he wore.
He gathered the cloth in secret
Lest any should know and praise –
The shears, the palm and the packthread –
And laboured it many ways.
But he had no skill in the making,
And failed and fretted the while;
Till the stood a Woman before him,
Smiling as Mothers smile.
Her feet were burned by the desert –
Like a desert-dweller she trod –
Even the two-fold Virgin,
Spouse and Bearer of God!
She took the shears and the sacking,
The needle and stubborn thread,
She cut, she shaped, and she sewed them,
And, “This shall be blessed,” she said.
She passed in the white hot noontide,
On a wave of the quivering air;
And the Bishop’s eyes were opened,
And he fell on his face in prayer.
But – far from the smouldering censers –
Far from the chanted praise –
Oh, far from the pictures of Mary
That had watched him all his days –
Far in the desert by Philae
The old Priest walked forlorn,
Till he saw in the head of her Riders
A Queen of the Desert-born.
High she swayed on her camel,
Beautiful to behold:
And her beast was belled with silver,
And her veils were spotted with gold!
Low she leaned from her litter –
Soft she spoke in his ear: -
“Nay, I have watched thy sorrow!
Nay, but the end is near!
“For again thou shalt serve at the Offering
And thy tongue shall be loosed in praise,
And again thou shalt sing unto Mary
Who has watched thee all thy days.
“Go in peace to the Bishop,
Carry him word from me –
That the Woman who sewed the sackcloth
Would have him set thee free!”
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Christ will remain a priest and king though He was never consecrated by any papist bishop or greased by any of those shavelings but he was ordained and consecrated by God Himself, and by Him anointed.
quote by Martin Luther
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A coach can only teach.
A coach is not a match to his players.
Stamina matters.
A teacher cannot match his students;
Memory matters.
A preacher cannot match his disciples;
Staunchness matters.
A husband cannot match his cuckold;
Curiosity matters.
Can a ladder match the climber?
30.09.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Closing Arguments
In closing, ladies and gentlemen of the jury
I'm not gonna sit here and bore you with a long, drawn out story
Or excuse, of why i think wyclef is guilty
I'm gonna stand by the exhibits as well as the tapes
And songs such as jeapordy, til novemeber, all the girls,
And bubblegoose, which stand side by side with my allegations
I rest my case
Ok, uhh, ladiessss, and gentle-men, of the juwy
As you can see nuttin has been proven here today
Deez witnesses dey brought ere don't not have evidence
To incriminate my client eh?
If he's not guilty he's innocent
If he's not detrimental to the society therefore he positive!
As i say before, dis case is pure bishop
Your honor see, this, this is exactly what i'm talkin about
I mean i've been meaning to ask this the whole time
Who the hell is bishop?
Eh?
And and why the hell hasn't he been brought on the stand?
Bishop, bishop, not true, false, bishop
Ohh, bullshit!
Oui
song performed by by Wyclef Jean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Closing Arguments (Interlude/Skit)
In closing, ladies and gentlemen of the jury
I'm not gonna sit here and bore you with a long, drawn out story
or excuse, of why I think Wyclef is guilty
I'm gonna stand by the exhibits as well as the tapes
And songs such as Jeapordy, Til Novemeber, All the Girls,
and Bubblegoose, which stand side by side with my allegations
I rest my case
OK, uhh, ladiessss, and gentle-men, of the juwy
As you can see nuttin has been proven here today
DEEZ witnesses dey brought ere don't not have evidence
to incriminate my client eh?
If he's not guilty he's innocent
If he's not detrimental to the society therefore he positive!
As I say before, dis case is pure bishop
Your honor see, this, this is exactly what I'm talkin about
I mean I've been meaning to ask this the whole time
Who the hell is Bishop?
Eh?
And and why the hell hasn't he been brought on the stand?
Bishop, bishop, not true, false, bishop
Ohh, bullshit!
Oui
song performed by by Wyclef Jean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Vase at the Pottery
The potter's daughter; like her father's craftsmanship
very beautiful to her *pinafore dress and the pigtails.
He sniffs when I ring the bicycle bell
during my routine delivery of their daily bread.
He knows my boss well; the pot bellied baker
and they are good drinking partners.
Baker's son goes to a high school
and very smarter than me.
Oh! I am an orphan who sleeps on a sooty mat
near the oven.
But she likes me very much
and I gave her a birthday present a stealing bun.
Postscript
*Because of her pinafore dress and the pigtails
she was attracted to me (on her school days)
and still struggle in life.
Dedication to the wild flowers whatever blossom & deteriorate
mysteriously in the wilderness.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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I think a bishop who doesn't give offence to anyone is probably not a good bishop.
quote by James Thomson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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[F]or academic men to be happy, the universe would have to take shape. All of philosophy has no other goal: it is a matter of giving a frock coat to what is, a mathematical frock coat. On the other hand, affirming that the universe resembles nothing and is only formless amounts to saying that the universe is something like a spider or spit.
I'd Love To Be A Fairy's Child
Children born of fairy stock
Never need for shirt or frock,
Never want for food or fire,
Always get their hearts desire:
Jingle pockets full of gold,
Marry when they're seven years old.
Every fairy child may keep
Two ponies and ten sheep;
All have houses, each his own,
Built of brick or granite stone;
They live on cherries, they run wild--
I'd love to be a Fairy's child.
poem by Robert Graves
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Playing in the praying church
Who loves playing in the house of God?
Am I a catholic?
No, I am a protestant
Am I a Baptist?
No, I am a Pentecostal
All praying in the house of God
Am I a priest?
No, I am a pastor
Am I a Bishop?
No, I am a prophet
Are they all praying in the house of God?
Where are you, oh God?
poem by Doris Dzameshie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bishop's Robes
Dressed in Bishop's robes
Terrifies me still
In Bishop's robes
Bastard headmaster
I'm not going back
I'm not going back
I'm not going back
Children taught to kill
To tear themselves to bits
On playing fields
Dressed in Bishop's robes
I'm not going back
I'm not going back
I'm not going back
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crazy Jane And The Bishop
Bring me to the blasted oak
That I, midnight upon the stroke,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
May call down curses on his head
Because of my dear Jack that's dead.
Coxcomb was the least he said:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
Nor was he Bishop when his ban
Banished Jack the Journeyman,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
Nor so much as parish priest,
Yet he, an old book in his fist,
Cried that we lived like beast and beast:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
The Bishop has a skin, God knows,
Wrinkled like the foot of a goose,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
Nor can he hide in holy black
The heron's hunch upon his back,
But a birch-tree stood my Jack:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
Jack had my virginity,
And bids me to the oak, for he
(all find safety in the tomb.)
Wanders out into the night
And there is shelter under it,
But should that other come, I spit:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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I went on tour in the play H.M.S. Pinafore.
quote by Dominic Chianese
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There's many a knave concealed under a surplice.