Never preach a sermon without a text from the Bible, a text containing the theme which you can elaborate. The text is the best proof in support of your argument. A sermon without a text is an argument without a proof.
quote by Isaac Mayer Wise
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
I Wrote A Poem Across The Universe
I wrote a poem across the Universe
It was read among the stars-
Cosmic messages were sent endlessly reinterpreting it-
It appeared in Galactic anthologies
And whole Civilizations taught it in their schools-
Worlds were born with it and worlds lamented their dying with it-
It became the Text of the Text of the Text of the Text of the Text
Of cosmic intergalactic meaningfulness-
I wrote a poem across the Universe-
It was read for billions of years
And then somehow
No attention was paid to it anymore-
And it vanished for as long as forever can be understood to be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Text
I text you
The words i mime
There is really no reason or rhyme
To persist after all this time
But can't resist as my love still stands
Clings to hope with two bleeding hands
And when i ask 'am i still in your heart'
You depress with your silence
And depart.
I text her
And sometimes for days
She leaves me in deepest malaise
Then answers when my last nerve end frays.
And the light that i saw in her eye
Gently flickers and threatens to die
As my memory, tired and vexed
Sees me through
'Til she sends the next text.
I text you
Think maybe you care
That some day or year we will share
our one love extraordinaire
But time eats away at our life
Cutting with razor sharp knife
And our old dream of husband and wife
Faces the gallows next
Yet absurdly i send you a text.
poem by Kevin East
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What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.
quote by Wallace Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The President had every reason to believe that the text presented to him was sound... These 16 words should never have been included in the text written for the president.
quote by George Tenet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dastardly Task
One long, dry legal text, I'm trying
my best, one long dry legal text, but
nevertheless, however I try, I cannot
finish it, my head's starting to crack
I suffer for lack of oxygen, my skin is
shrivelling and nothing seems thrilling
in this long dark night of a legal text, I
cannot utter a word to reveal my plight
Or fight against my inner being, mute,
immobile, without typing because when
I try, time seems to dry up in front of my
face, psychosomatic fatigue indicates
I need people to talk to, the doll faces
keeping me company can't lift the veil of
darkness and the terrible legal text goes
on and on, I have been abandoned
By the forces of life, bitterness filling my
heart - though as soon as a joyful thing
happens again bitterness will be erased,
my soul shall soar as it always does
When wonderful ideas take my thoughts
into the higher realms of joy and delight,
but for now, let me be mute and tackle
the dastardly task of my terrible text
Shedding little parts of my heart as I carry
the yoke eating into my mind, destroying
my joy and my life
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Turn It On
Every day just turn it on
Place it upon
the desk or in my pocket
That's what I do with it
Every day, just waiting for a call
Waiting for a text for your text, for your call, but it shall
Not come, it will not it just won't
Because you really don't
Text me or call me
But I'll turn it on and wait, you know just to see
In fact I'll keep hoping it's you
With every beep and even ring too
When I check it'll be like a reality check
It'll only take a sec
Before I realize it's not you, it will not be you, it won't
I wonder if you don't
Turn on your phone, but then again maybe you don't care
Maybe because I'd never dare
To complain to you about this to your face
I can't take the disgrace
I'll let you talk to me as much as you like, not as much I do
My feelings don't matter much in this situation, maybe not even to you
I pray they do, that they do mean something to you
But the longer you don't respond, it makes me wonder who
You think I am, or how you think of me
I wish I could see
How you see, but every day I'll turn it on
Take a breath with every sound hoping it's you, but then the moment's gone
Now it's just on
Placed upon... why do I even bother?
poem by David Knox
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In our daily lives as programmers, we process text strings a lot. So I tried to work hard on text processing, namely the string class and regular expressions. Regular expressions are built into the language and are very tuned up for use.
quote by Yukihiro Matsumoto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Words
You treat my words
As if they were Sacred Text
Kneeling in Reverence
At my un-holy adjectives
In prayer at my altar
While candle flicker
Shadow flashes your face
Waiting for my sermon
Chapter and verse
Your prayers answered
With an: Amen!
poem by Theodora Onken
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Last Text
Up against my throat, I hold a hunting knife
This text will be my last
For, when it's done, I'll take my life
Oh, I'll have a blast
Through my throat, the knife will cut
Causing blood to spurt out of the open wound
I get a feeling of relief in my gut
For I know it'll all soon be over and done
And this text will be my last
It would be easier with a gun
But, either way, it'll be a blast
I won't die fast
But, oh, how it'll be a blast!
poem by Amy Parkinson
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The best sermon is preached by the minister who has a sermon to preach and not by the man who has to preach a sermon.
quote by William Feather
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Polyacrostic Palimpsest - Life's Karma's given light, our dream here gleams
Notes on Polyacrostic Palimpsests.
Acrostic: Verse in which certain letters form a word or message
Polyacrostic: Several acrostics within the same composition
Acrostics to be found below – in alphabetical order:
Palimpsest: A manuscript on which more than one text is written
with earlier writing, or one level of meaning, partially visible.
I: plain text - in black
II: Complete acrostic palimpsests highlighted
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Don’t Dress Up For the Occasion
Don’t dress up for the occasion
It’s only you and me
And a lyric without explanation
With words coming steadily
Writing thoughts on a sheet
Riming it all into place
Naming the text what it need
- Oh, there are so many ways
I could go on and ask you
What should I fix up more?
Then you could tell me what to do
To make me feel more assure
Expressions warped in text
Playfully the words are fixed
I can't explain what comes next
It’s complicated and mixed
Something perhaps about Prague
I traveled there longtime ago
Or maybe of a stray street dog
I came through the years to know
Together sometimes we walked the street
And blabbered full of nonsense
He and me and little ‘twiddle tweet’
Became all friends by accidents…
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Overheard From A Caller Inside An Internet Cafe (can There Be Something Poetic In This?)
......(can't hear it)
on monday?
oh i can have it on tuesday?
....
yeah i like to meet you
....
maybe your parents will be angry?
.....
that is very loud i can hear you
ha ha
there is some music
ok
i think i better text you
yeah i can hear
(noises)
yes huh
...
so you're in the house now
...
i see, ok, ok
so i don't want you be travelling...
....
can i call you tomorrow morning? what time do you want
me to call you?
...
yeah, i'll send you text messages
...
nice to hear you again...
ok
... i call you tomorrow, .. goodnight.. bye bye
ok i call you again tomorrow.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Love by TexT
Emotionally electrified by the tentacles of love, ten thousand kisses i lip onto your mouth, with all my warmly wishes around the moon from north to south - Hugs and kisses, the wrap around of your arms, your whispers that says, I love you - Breathless i suffocate when you are not around, when i stare relentlessly towards the stars, yet you are never away that far - When a tear falls onto my hand, i close my eyes, when you sweet of with one of your sexy goodbyes, i want to die - the best is when i see you again, when you dial me a smile, when i was broken, the times when your are not close to my heart, when you were gone for awhile - So my love for you can never die, not in this world nor the next of the next, so i write by text to text
poem by Unic Cjonr
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Vanitas Vanitatum
How spake of old the Royal Seer?
(His text is one I love to treat on.)
This life of ours he said is sheer
Mataiotes Mataioteton.
O Student of this gilded Book,
Declare, while musing on its pages,
If truer words were ever spoke
By ancient, or by modern sages!
The various authors' names but note,*
French, Spanish, English, Russians, Germans:
And in the volume polyglot,
Sure you may read a hundred sermons!
What histories of life are here,
More wild than all romancers' stories;
What wondrous transformations queer,
What homilies on human glories!
What theme for sorrow or for scorn!
What chronicle of Fate's surprises—
Of adverse fortune nobly borne,
Of chances, changes, ruins, rises!
Of thrones upset, and sceptres broke,
How strange a record here is written!
Of honors, dealt as if in joke;
Of brave desert unkindly smitten.
How low men were, and how they rise!
How high they were, and how they tumble!
O vanity of vanities!
O laughable, pathetic jumble!
Here between honest Janin's joke
And his Turk Excellency's firman,
I write my name upon the book:
I write my name—and end my sermon.
—————
O Vanity of vanities!
How wayward the decrees of Fate are;
How very weak the very wise,
How very small the very great are!
What mean these stale moralities,
Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble?
Why rail against the great and wise,
And tire us with your ceaseless grumble?
Pray choose us out another text,
O man morose and narrow-minded!
Come turn the page—I read the next,
And then the next, and still I find it.
Read here how Wealth aside was thrust,
And Folly set in place exalted;
How Princes footed in the dust,
While lackeys in the saddle vaulted.
Though thrice a thousand years are past,
Since David's son, the sad and splendid,
The weary King Ecclesiast,
Upon his awful tablets penned it,—
Methinks the text is never stale,
And life is every day renewing
Fresh comments on the old old tale
Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin.
Hark to the Preacher, preaching still
He lifts his voice and cries his sermon,
Here at St. Peter's of Cornhill,
As yonder on the Mount of Hermon;
For you and me to heart to take
(O dear beloved brother readers)
To-day as when the good King spake
Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars.
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Baby Boomer
Mario's brother is dead. In Brazilia
of the green and yellow flag, at the matches
where we drink beer and watch them run.
All of a sudden. A shock.
Just when he was finally getting happy-
leaving behind a wife and child.
Who will fortunately want for nothing
except him, of course.
But that too passes. Everything does.
It makes us ashamed to be old
though we are not, in fact, that-
hailing from the generation that never dies.
'Thanks for sharing, ' I text.
'Joy is short and troubles abound.
There is still that ideal configuration
of Reality we call the Beautiful
and those who struggle to perceive it.'
-But it doesn't sound real. I delet it.
May he rest in peace, ' I next text,
and it sounds good, yes, this is it.
'May he rest in peace.'
poem by Morgan Michaels
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That God cannot lie, is no advantage to your argument, because it is no proof that priests can not, or that the Bible does not.
quote by Thomas Paine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Text
One Sunday eve a grave old man,
Who had not been at church, did say,
'Eliza, tell me, if you can,
What text our Doctor took to-day?'
She hung her head, she blushed for shame,
One single word she did not know,
Nor verse nor chapter she could name,
Her silent blushes told him so.
Again said he, 'My little maid,
What in the sermon did you hear?
Come tell me that, for that may aid
Me to find out the text, my dear.'
A tear stole down each blushing cheek,
She wished she better had attended;
She sobbing said, when she could speak,
She heard not till 'twas almost ended.
'Ah! little heedless one, why what
Could you be thinking on? 'tis clear
Some foolish fancies must have got
Possession of your head, my dear.
'What thoughts were they, Eliza, tell,
Nor seek from me the truth to smother.'-
'O I remember very well,
I whispered something to my brother.
'I said, 'Be friends with me, dear Will;'
We quarrelled, sir, at the church door,-
Though he cried, 'Hush, don't speak, be still,'
Yet I repeated these words o'er
'Seven or eight times, I have no doubt.
But here comes William, and if he
The good things he has heard about
Forgets too, sir, the fault's in me.'
'No, sir,' said William, 'though perplext
And much disturbed by my sister,
I in this matter of the text,
I thank my memory, can assist her.
'I have, and pride myself on having,
A more retentive head than she.'-
Then gracefully his right hand waving,
He with no little vanity
Recited gospel, chapter, verse-
I should be loth to spoil in metre
All the good words he did rehearse,
As spoken by our Lord to Peter.
But surely never words from heaven
Of peace and love more full descended;
That we should seventy times seven
Forgive our brother that offended.
In every point of view he placed it,
As he the Doctor's self had been,
With emphasis and action graced it:
But from his self-conceit 'twas seen
Who had brought home the words, and who had
A little on the meaning thought;
Eliza now the old man knew had
Learned that which William never caught.
Without impeaching William's merit,
His head but served him for the letter;
Hers missed the words, but kept the spirit;
Her memory to her heart was debtor.
poem by Charles Lamb
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When Watching
One thing I've noticed I've come to miss
When watching my LED HD TV
Is that whenever I flip through the channels
On my DVR,
I don't have to become a tourist
Glancing at the sights anymore—
I can only read the dialogue of information
That tells me what I am watching
Or what I could be watching.
I don't have the time to observe
Foreign landscapes
(Partially because
Nobody makes shows
Of that
Anymore)
Or see how other people are different,
I just see text, text, text with no
Context, context, context,
And I feel like I'm missing something.
I don't even watch TV much anymore.
I don't enjoy sitcoms
Because I don't enjoy their jokes
Because my life isn't like that.
I don't enjoy the news
Because they don't tell me anything I want to hear
Because I want to know what's happening in the world.
I don't enjoy reality TV
Because those people make me afraid of reality
Because they call themselves reality.
I miss the white noise, the static,
The scrambled images of channels
I never had as a kid,
Or the disintegrated programs
That looked like high-energy molecular,
Heated up, when the cable is out.
I miss the way it sounded,
The thunder storm sound,
Voices reduced to raindrops
Pouring against the black backdrop
Of a dead screen,
A comforting hum
Made of chaos
For periods of silence,
Sometimes enough to make me turn it off.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Divine Realm
When communication breaks down;
only plants in my garden remain friends
in whom I can confide when there is
no possible escape into a storybook
universe or the more electrifying and
divine holographic realm of elusive
quantum physics
I must read legislation, dates, bills
and acts which offer no thrills, courage
failing, patience tried and I am running
circles around the demon benchmark
text containing quotes from Royal
Decrees amended - and more
such-like legal terms
I must return to the lines comprising
the stilted fire of staccato text, words
dying in the small-font page while a
sympathic Mantovani bewails my
fate in languorous melodies
played on accordion
and violins
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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