Accepted
Charles Shortridge once to St. Peter came.
'Down!' cried the saint with his face aflame;
''Tis writ that every hardy liar
Shall dwell forever and ever in fire!'
'That's what I said the night that I died,'
The sinner, turning away, replied.
'What! _you_ said that?' cried the saint-'what! what!
_You_ said 'twas so writ? Then, faith, 'tis _not!_
I'm a devil at quoting, but I begin
To fail in my memory. Pray walk in.'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
Elmer Brown
Awf'lest boy in this-here town
Er anywheres is Elmer Brown!
He'll mock you--yes, an' strangers, too,
An' make a face an' yell at you,--
'_Here's_ the way _you_ look!'
Yes, an' wunst in School one day,
An' Teacher's lookin' wite that way,
He helt his slate, an' hide his head,
An' maked a face at _her_, an' said,--
'_Here's_ the way _you_ look!'
An' sir! when Rosie Wheeler smile
One morning at him 'crosst the aisle,
He twist his face all up, an' black
His nose wiv ink, an' whisper back,--
'_Here's_ the way _you_ look!'
Wunst when his Aunt's all dressed to call,
An' kiss him good-bye in the hall,
An' latch the gate an' start away,
He holler out to her an' say,--
'_Here's_ the way _you_ look!'
An' when his Pa he read out loud
The speech he maked, an' feel so proud
It's in the paper--Elmer's Ma
She ketched him--wite behind his Pa,--
'_Here's_ the way _you_ look!'
Nen when his Ma she slip an' take
Him in the other room an' shake
Him good! w'y, he don't care--no-_sir_!--
He ist look up an' laugh at her,--
'_Here's_ the way _you_ look!'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Charles And Peter
Ere Gabriel's note to silence died
All graves of men were gaping wide.
Then Charles A. Dana, of 'The Sun,'
Rose slowly from the deepest one.
'The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ,'
Quoth he-'ick, bick, ban, doe,-I'm It!'
(His headstone, footstone, counted slow,
Were 'ick' and 'bick,' he 'ban' and 'doe':
Of beating Nick the subtle art
Was part of his immortal part.)
Then straight to Heaven he took his flight,
Arriving at the Gates of Light.
There Warden Peter, in the throes
Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose.
'Get up, you sluggard!' Dana cried
'I've an engagement there inside.'
The Saint arose and scratched his head.
'I recollect your face,' he said.
'(And, pardon me, 't is rather hard),
But--' Dana handed him a card.
'Ah, yes, I now remember-bless
My soul, how dull I am I-yes, yes,
'We've nothing better here than bliss.
Walk in. But I must tell you this:
'We've rest and comfort, though, and peace.'
'H'm-puddles,' Dana said, 'for geese.
'Have you in Heaven no Hell?' 'Why, no,'
Said Peter, 'nor, in truth, below.
''T is not included in our scheme-
'T is but a preacher's idle dream.'
The great man slowly moved away.
'I'll call,' he said, 'another day.
'On earth I played it, o'er and o'er,
And Heaven without it were a bore.'
'O, stuff!-come in. You'll make,' said Pete,
'A hell where'er you set your feet.'
1885.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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One And One Are Two
The trumpet sounded and the dead
Came forth from earth and ocean,
And Pickering arose and sped
Aloft with wobbling motion.
'What makes him fly lop-sided?' cried
A soul of the elected.
'One ear was wax,' a rogue replied,
'And isn't resurrected.'
Below him on the pitted plain,
By his abandoned hollow,
His hair and teeth tried all in vain
The rest of him to follow.
Saint Peter, seeing him ascend,
Came forward to the wicket,
And said: 'My mutilated friend,
I'll thank you for your ticket.'
'The _Call_,' said Pickering, his hand
To reach the latch extended.
Said Peter, affable and bland:
'The free-list is suspended
'What claim have you that's valid here?'
That ancient vilifier
Reflected; then, with look austere,
Replied: 'I am a liar.'
Said Peter: 'That is simple, neat
And candid Anglo-Saxon,
But-well, come in, and take a seat
Up there by Colonel Jackson.'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Sinner Or Saint
Stand bold, for the ride,
Right now, you know that is the place to be
To watch humankind, stumble into another century
Take no prisoners,
Their sure at giving you the run-around
Violance, on your mind,
Cus your attention is the battleground
What are you?
A sinner or saint
You gotta be
A sinner or saint
Ice cool walawyers,
Straight up and guerentee your gonna get
All that you deserve,
Sit down, blockin your way, seen nothin yet
(chorus)
What are you?
That is your fate
You gotta be
A sinner or saint
Some poeple love too fast
Some people live too long
And so Ive got to ask
Do you know right from wrong?
Disa-ssembler, will you ever, really be a saint...
Still on for the ride,
Who cares if you loose or win
They can bleed you dry,
When youre, a pumping the adrenelin
(chorus)
What are you?
Its never too late
You gotta be
A sinner or saint..
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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And thus I clothe my naked villainy With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
quote by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Two Husbands
Unpenitent, I grieve to state,
Two good men stood by heaven's gate,
Saint Peter coming to await.
The stopped the Keeper of the Keys,
Saying: "What suppliants are these,
Who wait me not on bended knees?
"To get my heavenly Okay
A man should have been used to pray,
Or suffered in some grievous way."
"Oh I have suffered," cried the first.
"Of wives I had the wicked worst,
Who made my life a plague accurst.
"Such martyrdom no tongue can tell;
In mercy's name it is not well
To doom me to another hell."
Saint Peter said: "I comprehend;
But tribulations have their end.
The gate is open, - go my friend."
Then said the second: "What of me?
More I deserve to pass than he,
For I've been wedded twice, you see."
Saint Peter looked at him a while,
And then he answered with a smile:
"Your application I will file.
"Yet twice in double yoke you've driven . . .
Though sinners with our Saints we leaven,
We don't take IMBECILES in heaven."
poem by Robert William Service
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You cannot make a sinner into a saint by killing him. He who does not live as a saint here will never live as a saint hereafter.
quote by Charles Spurgeon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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His Prayer To Ben Jonson
When I a verse shall make,
Know I have pray'd thee,
For old religion's sake,
Saint Ben to aid me.
Make the way smooth for me,
When I, thy Herrick,
Honouring thee, on my knee
Offer my lyric.
Candles I'll give to thee,
And a new altar,
And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be
Writ in my psalter.
poem by Robert Herrick
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One Of The Redeemed
Saint Peter, standing at the Gate, beheld
A soul whose body Death had lately felled.
A pleasant soul as ever was, he seemed:
His step was joyous and his visage beamed.
'Good morning, Peter.' There was just a touch
Of foreign accent, but not overmuch.
The Saint bent gravely, like a stately tree,
And said: 'You have the advantage, sir, of me.'
'Renan of Paris,' said the immortal part
'A master of the literary art.
'I'm somewhat famous, too, I grieve to tell,
As controversialist and infidel.'
'That's of no consequence,' the Saint replied,
'Why, I myself my Master once denied.
'No one up here cares anything for that.
But is there nothing you were always at?
'It seems to me you were accused one day
Of _something_-what it was I can't just say.'
'Quite likely,' said the other; 'but I swear
My life was irreproachable and fair.'
Just then a soul appeared upon the wall,
Singing a hymn as loud as he could bawl.
About his head a golden halo gleamed,
As well befitted one of the redeemed.
A harp he bore and vigorously thumbed,
Strumming he sang, and, singing, ever strummed.
His countenance, suffused with holy pride,
Glowed like a pumpkin with a light inside.
'Ah! that's the chap,' said Peter, 'who declares:
'Renan's a rake and drunkard-smokes and swears.'
'Yes, that's the fellow-he's a preacher-came
From San Francisco. Mansfield was his name.'
'Do you believe him?' said Renan. 'Great Scott!
Believe? Believe the blackguard? Of course _not!
'Just walk right in and make yourself at home.
And if he pecks at you I'll cut his comb.
'He's only here because the Devil swore
He wouldn't have him, for the smile he wore.'
Resting his eyes one moment on that proof
Of saving grace, the Frenchman turned aloof,
And stepping down from cloud to cloud, said he:
'Thank you, monsieur,-I'll see if he'll have _me_.'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Lie Versus Truth
I always
Speak the truth
But
How can I lie?
Since I speak truth
I admit
Sometimes
I also speak lies
Unable to decide
I am truthful
Or a liar
I expressed
My dilemma
To an old saint
Who replied?
A liar is a liar
Similar to a sinner
All said and done
A truth
Which can take a life?
Is worse than a lie
A lie
Which can save a life?
Is better than
Any truth
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Unarmed
Saint Peter sat at the jasper gate,
When Stephen M. White arrived in state.
'Admit me.' 'With pleasure,' Peter said,
Pleased to observe that the man was dead;
'That's what I'm here for. Kindly show
Your ticket, my lord, and in you go.'
White stared in blank surprise. Said he
'I _run_ this place-just turn that key.'
'Yes?' said the Saint; and Stephen heard
With pain the inflection of that word.
But, mastering his emotion, he
Remarked: 'My friend, you're too d-- free;
'I'm Stephen M., by thunder, White!'
And, 'Yes?' the guardian said, with quite
The self-same irritating stress
Distinguishing his former yes.
And still demurely as a mouse
He twirled the key to that Upper House.
Then Stephen, seeing his bluster vain
Admittance to those halls to gain,
Said, neighborly: 'Pray tell me. Pete,
Does any one contest my seat?'
The Saint replied: 'Nay, nay, not so;
But you voted always wrong below:
'Whate'er the question, clear and high
You're voice rang: '_I_,' '_I_,' ever '_I_.''
Now indignation fired the heart
Of that insulted immortal part.
'Die, wretch!' he cried, with blanching lip,
And made a motion to his hip,
With purpose murderous and hearty,
To draw the Democratic party!
He felt his fingers vainly slide
Upon his unappareled hide
(The dead arise from their 'silent tents'
But not their late habiliments)
Then wailed-the briefest of his speeches:
'I've left it in my other breeches!'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Saint in a sinner
Saint in a sinner
~
There’s a different kind of beauty
Found beneath the depths of the eye
All that glitters is not gold
But to a shining light we are sold
A promise of salvation
To be bestowed unto the heart
The beautiful mind in speaking
Has a torment of it own
Hear a saint in a sinner present
A demon in new clothes
That which we hunger for
Desire to the very end
Blinds us to the reality
The beauty we often seek to find
Is not always what we expect
When revealed a saint in a sinner
The gold of the impassioned greed
Is a different kind of beautiful
Than that which we already know
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Saint Jeanne Jugan (Foundress of ‘Little Sisters of the Poor’)
When four, she lost her father while at sea!
Her mother worked hard, raising family!
She grew in France amidst Revolution;
Her love of God was her life’s solution.
She cared for sick and poor elderly souls,
By assuming the humblest of earth’s roles!
Young Jeanne Jugan grew up a shepherdess;
Her love for Jesus made her a Foundress!
With heart aflame with fire of love for God,
She sacrificed her life for Jesus Lord!
Through exemplary life, she showed the world
That love of God was worth more than all gold.
The elderly poor needed love and care;
So, young Jeanne chose the road traveled quite rare.
Her charity became a noble cause;
She worked for poor without making a pause.
It was a time when violence was rife,
And begging was common by those in strife;
She followed Christ, carrying her cross of life,
And served the poor and downtrodden all life.
Her name was ‘Sister Mary of the cross! ’
All life, Christ Jesus Lord was her one boss!
‘Come to my aid, O God, ’ she prayed and cried
all life in humility, till she died!
A Saint for elderly and every age,
She wrote her life upon a golden page;
She saw the Lord in every poor man’s face,
And served God through her love of human race!
‘God wanted her all for Himself, ’ she said,
‘And kept her for a work yet unfounded! ’
On October eleven, two thousand nine,
The Blessed Jeanne Jugan became a Saint!
Dedicated fondly in memory of the Sister Saint.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 10-25-2009
poem by John Celes
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To Groves
Ye silent shades, whose each tree here
Some relique of a saint doth wear;
Who for some sweet-heart's sake, did prove
The fire and martyrdom of Love:--
Here is the legend of those saints
That died for love, and their complaints;
Their wounded hearts, and names we find
Encarved upon the leaves and rind.
Give way, give way to me, who come
Scorch'd with the self-same martyrdom!
And have deserved as much, Love knows,
As to be canonized 'mongst those
Whose deeds and deaths here written are
Within your Greeny-kalendar.
--By all those virgins' fillets hung
Upon! your boughs, and requiems sung
For saints and souls departed hence,
Here honour'd still with frankincense;
By all those tears that have been shed,
As a drink-offering to the dead;
By all those true-love knots, that be
With mottoes carved on every tree;
By sweet Saint Phillis! pity me;
By dear Saint Iphis! and the rest
Of all those other saints now blest,
Me, me forsaken,--here admit
Among your myrtles to be writ;
That my poor name may have the glory
To live remember'd in your story.
poem by Robert Herrick
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The Night I Cried
The night i cried
You weren't anymore there
Tears were heavy
No one asked me to share.
The night i cried
I cried whole night
Thinking of u my love
tears didn't stop a while.
The night i cried
I didn't want to cry
But i cried all night
still didn't know why.
The night i cried
I didn't wipe out my tears
I let them flow away
With the pain i preserved for years.
The night i cried
I silently sang something
That made me miss you more
Even more than i ever did.
The night i cried
My eyes couldn't sleep
My mind was going on asking me
Why i went so deep....
poem by Meera Santoshi
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Mr. Sheets
The Devil stood before the gate
Of Heaven. He had a single mate:
Behind him, in his shadow, slunk
Clay Sheets in a perspiring funk.
'Saint Peter, see this season ticket,'
Said Satan; 'pray undo the wicket.'
The sleepy Saint threw slight regard
Upon the proffered bit of card,
Signed by some clerical dead-beats:
'Admit the bearer and Clay Sheets.'
Peter expanded all his eyes:
''Clay Sheets?'-well, I'll be damned!' he cries.
'Our couches are of golden cloud;
Nothing of earth is here allowed.
I'll let you in,' he added, shedding
On Nick a smile-'but not your bedding.'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Elixer Vitæ
Of life's elixir I had writ, when sleep
(Pray Heaven it spared him who the writing read!)
Settled upon my senses with so deep
A stupefaction that men thought me dead.
The centuries stole by with noiseless tread,
Like spectres in the twilight of my dream;
I saw mankind in dim procession sweep
Through life, oblivion at each extreme.
Meanwhile my beard, like Barbarossa's growing,
Loaded my lap and o'er my knees was flowing.
The generations came with dance and song,
And each observed me curiously there.
Some asked: 'Who was he?' Others in the throng
Replied: 'A wicked monk who slept at prayer.'
Some said I was a saint, and some a bear-
These all were women. So the young and gay,
Visibly wrinkling as they fared along,
Doddered at last on failing limbs away;
Though some, their footing in my beard entangled,
Fell into its abysses and were strangled.
At last a generation came that walked
More slowly forward to the common tomb,
Then altogether stopped. The women talked
Excitedly; the men, with eyes agloom
Looked darkly on them with a look of doom;
And one cried out: 'We are immortal now-
How need we these?' And a dread figure stalked,
Silent, with gleaming axe and shrouded brow,
And all men cried: 'Decapitate the women,
Or soon there'll be no room to stand or swim in!'
So (in my dream) each lovely head was chopped
From its fair shoulders, and but men alone
Were left in all the world. Birth being stopped,
Enough of room remained in every zone,
And Peace ascended Woman's vacant throne.
Thus, life's elixir being found (the quacks
Their bread-and-butter in it gladly sopped)
'Twas made worth having by the headsman's axe.
Seeing which, I gave myself a hearty shaking,
And crumbled all to powder in the waking.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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the modern martyr in the kingdom of God
i've just seen the picture of a man
devout catholic
gunned down in broad day,
falling to the ground,
and declared another martyr for
mother church,
sooner he becomes a saint
because he died
to the hands of the fanatics
the unbelievers,
sometimes i ask myself if this is the only way to become
a martyr, the only way to be a saint,
(does it really matter if one becomes a saint?)
i guess, there is another happy child of God
who has worked for the church
who cooked faith, who served beliefs,
who traveled far just to show how good God is,
the happy child does not have to die
for God wants him to be with his side,
smiling and alive,
He too is a saint. He sowed happiness.
He did not plant guilt. He did not grown scruples.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Christopher, Mr. Christopher
Written by dennis deyoung
Lead vocals by dennis deyoung
I remember christopher
Such a man
So brave and tall
He took the baby jesus
In his arms
Across the waterfall
People cried, "he's holy!
He's a saint not a man!"
All at once it was written
In the book of the land
Christopher, mr. christopher
Why won't they leave you alone?
Christopher, mr. christopher
Why won't they leave you alone?
There was mary margaret
A christian lady
Dressed in black
She believed st. christopher
Helped her find
A way back
She told him all her secrets
And the dreams of her years
So when they took that saint away
All that's left were her tears
Mary cried "they're crazy!
The world is changing too fast!"
It was then she discovered
That her faith couldn't last
Christopher, mr. christopher
Why won't they leave you alone?
Christopher, mr. christopher
Why won't they leave you alone?
Christopher, mr. christopher
Why won't they leave you alone?
Christopher, mr. christopher
Why won't they leave you alone?
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On Ink
I am jet black, as you may see,
The son of pitch and gloomy night:
Yet all that know me will agree,
I'm dead except I live in light.
Sometimes in panegyric high,
Like lofty Pindar, I can soar;
And raise a virgin to the sky,
Or sink her to a pocky whore.
My blood this day is very sweet,
To-morrow of a bitter juice;
Like milk, 'tis cried about the street,
And so applied to different use.
Most wondrous is my magic power:
For with one colour I can paint;
I'll make the devil a saint this hour,
Next make a devil of a saint.
Through distant regions I can fly,
Provide me but with paper wings;
And fairly show a reason why
There should be quarrels among kings:
And, after all, you'll think it odd,
When learned doctors will dispute,
That I should point the word of God,
And show where they can best confute.
Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats:
'Tis I that must the lands convey,
And strip their clients to their coats;
Nay, give their very souls away.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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