Remarks On The Bright And Dark Side
But may a Rural Pen try to set forth
Such a Great Fathers Ancient Grace and worth
I undertake a no less Arduous Theme
Then the Old Sages found the Chaldae Dream
'Tis more then Tythes of a profound respect
That must be paid such a Melchizedeck
Oxford this light with tongues and Arts doth trim
And then his Northern Town doth Challeng him
His Time and Strength he Center'd there in this
To do good works, and be what now he is.
His fulgent Virtues there and learned Strains
Tall comely Presence, Life unsoil'd with Stains
Things most on WORTHIES in their Stories writ
Did him to move in Orbs of Service fitt
Things more peculiar yet, my muse intend
Say stranger things then these, so weep and End
When he forsook first his Oxonian Cell
Some Scores at once from Popish darkness fell
So this Reformer studied! rare first fruits!
Shakeing a Crab-tree thus by hot disputes
The acid juice by miracle turn'd wine
And rais'd the Spirits of our young Divine
Hearers like Doves flock'd with contentios wing
Who should be first, feed most: most homeward bring
Laden with honey like Hyblaean Bees
They knead it into combs upon their knees.
Why he from Europes pleasant Garden fled
In the Next Age will be with horrour said
Braintree was of this Jewel then possest
Untill himself he labour'd into Rest
His Inventory then with Johns was took
His rough Coat, Girdle with the Sacred Book
When Reverend Knowles and he sail'd hand in hand
To Christ, Espousing the Virginian Land
Upon a ledge of Craggy Rocks near stav'd
His Bible in his bosome thrusting sav'd
The Bible, the best cordial of his Heart
Come floods, come flames (cry'd he) we'l never part
A constellation of great converts there
Shone round him and his Heav'nly Glory where
With a Rare Skill in hearts, this Doctor cou'd
Steal into them words that should do them good
His Balsom's from the Tree of Life distill'd
Hearts cleans'd and heal'd, and with rich comforts fill'd
But here's the wo! Balsoms which others cur'd
Would in his Own Turn hardly be endur'd
Apollyon Owing him a cursed Spleen
Who an Apollos in the Church had been
Dreading his Traffick here would be undone
By Numerous proselites he daily won
Accus'd him of Imaginary faults
And push'd him down so into dismal Vaults
Vaults where he kept long Ember weeks of grief
'Till Heav'n alarm'd sent him in relief
Then was a Daniel in the lyons Den
A man, oh how belov'd of God and men
By his beds-side an Hebrew sword there lay
With which at last he drove the Devil away.
Quaker's too durst not bear his keen replies
But fearing it half drawn the trembler flyes
Like Lazarus new rais'd from Death appears
The Saint that had been dead for many years
Our Nehemiah said, shall such as I
Desert my flock, and like a Coward fly
Long had the Churches begg'd the Saints release
Releas'd at last, he dies in Glorious peace
The Night is not so long, but phosphors ray
Approaching Glories doth on high display
Faith's Eye in him discern'd the Morning Star
His heart leap'd; Sure the Sun cannot be far
In Extasies of Joy, he Ravish'd Cryes
Love, Love the Lamb, the Lamb, in whome he dies.
poem by Benjamin Tompson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Sunday
O day most calm, most bright
The fruit of this, the next world's bud,
Th'endorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a friend, and with his blood;
The couch of time; care's balm and bay:
The week were dark, but for thy light:
Thy torch doth show the way.
The other days and thou
Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow:
The worky-days are the back-part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.
Man had straight forward gone
To endless death: but thou dost pull
And turn us round to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could not choose to look on still;
Since there is no place so alone,
The which he doth not fill.
Sundays the pillars are,
On which heav'n's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God's rich garden: that is bare,
Which parts their ranks and orders.
The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife,
More plentiful than hope.
This day my Saviour rose,
And did enclose this light for his:
That, as each beast his manger knows,
Man might not of his fodder miss.
Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there for those
Who want herbs for their wound.
The rest of our Creation
Our great Redeemer did remove
With the same shake, which at his passion
Did th'earth and all things with it move.
As Samson bore the doors away,
Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,
And did unhinge that day.
The brightness of that day
We sullied by our foul offence:
Wherefore that robe we cast away,
Having a new at his expense,
Whose drops of bloud paid the full price,
That was requir'd to make us gay,
And fit for Paradise.
Thou art a day of mirth:
And where the weekdays trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth.
O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from sev'n to sev'n,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heav'n!
poem by George Herbert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Testimony
I said of laughter: it is vain.
Of mirth I said: what profits it?
Therefore I found a book, and writ
Therein how ease and also pain,
How health and sickness, every one
Is vanity beneath the sun.
Man walks in a vain shadow; he
Disquieteth himself in vain.
The things that were shall be again;
The rivers do not fill the sea,
But turn back to their secret source;
The winds too turn upon their course.
Our treasures moth and rust corrupt,
Or thieves break through and steal, or they
Make themselves wings and fly away.
One man made merry as he supped,
Nor guessed how when that night grew dim,
His soul would be required of him.
We build our houses on the sand
Comely withoutside and within;
But when the winds and rains begin
To beat on them, they cannot stand;
They perish, quickly overthrown,
Loose from the very basement stone.
All things are vanity, I said:
Yea vanity of vanities.
The rich man dies; and the poor dies:
The worm feeds sweetly on the dead.
Whate'er thou lackest, keep this trust:
All in the end shall have but dust.
The one inheritance, which best
And worst alike shall find and share:
The wicked cease from troubling there,
And there the weary are at rest;
There all the wisdom of the wise
Is vanity of vanities.
Man flourishes as a green leaf,
And as a leaf doth pass away;
Or as a shade that cannot stay,
And leaves no track, his course is brief:
Yet doth man hope and fear and plan
Till he is dead:—oh foolish man!
Our eyes cannot be satisfied
With seeing, nor our ears be filled
With hearing: yet we plant and build
And buy and make our borders wide;
We gather wealth, we gather care,
But know not who shall be our heir.
Why should we hasten to arise
So early, and so late take rest?
Our labour is not good; our best
Hopes fade; our heart is stayed on lies:
Verily, we sow wind; and we
Shall reap the whirlwind, verily.
He who hath little shall not lack;
He who hath plenty shall decay:
Our fathers went; we pass away;
Our children follow on our track:
So generations fail, and so
They are renewed, and come and go.
The earth is fattened with our dead;
She swallows more and doth not cease:
Therefore her wine and oil increase
And her sheaves are not numbered;
Therefore her plants are green, and all
Her pleasant trees lusty and tall.
Therefore the maidens cease to sing,
And the young men are very sad;
Therefore the sowing is not glad,
And mournful is the harvesting.
Of high and low, of great and small,
Vanity is the lot of all.
A King dwelt in Jerusalem;
He was the wisest man on earth;
He had all riches from his birth,
And pleasures till he tired of them;
Then, having tested all things, he
Witnessed that all are vanity.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hymn 3
The nativity of Christ.
Luke 1:30ff; 2:10ff
Behold, the grace appears!
The promise is fulfilled;
Mary, the wondrous virgin, bears,
And Jesus is the child.
[The Lord, the highest God,
Calls him his only Son;
He bids him rule the lands abroad,
And gives him David's throne.
O'er Jacob shall he reign
With a peculiar sway;
The nations shall his grace obtain,
His kingdom ne'er decay.]
To bring the glorious news
A heav'nly form appears;
He tells the shepherds of their joys,
And banishes their fears.
"Go, humble swains," said he,
"To David's city fly;
The promised infant born to-day
Doth in a manger lie."
"With looks and hearts serene,
Go visit Christ your King;
And straight a flaming troop was seen:
The shepherds heard them sing:
"Glory to God on high!
And heav'nly peace on earth;
Goodwill to men, to angels joy,
At the Redeemer's birth!
[In worship so divine,
Let saints employ their tongues;
With the celestial hosts we join,
And loud repeat their songs:
"Glory to God on high!
And heav'nly peace on earth;
Goodwill to men, to angels joy,
At our Redeemer's birth!"]
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On Ye Bishop Of Meaths Death
Mourn widdowd Iland, Mourn, your Pan is dead.
Mourn ye unhappy flocks your Sheapherd Pan is fled;
Around your grief in dolefull straines convey,
& Lett ym in sad Eccho's dy away,
As sympathising wth their masters care,
As if they felt th' unlucky newes they bear,
Of this so true a saint heav'n seem'd to send him here.
To shew how good in innocence we were:
So true a saint.—
We thought he was no man, but from ye skyes
(as there were oft of old) some angell in disguise,
But see to undeceive us to our grief, he dies.
He was with so good thoughts so freely springing blest,
ye divine garden so few briars did molest,
As if a Paradise were in his breast.
Serene his mind as heaven did appear;
His lookes serene as mercy's self might wear;
His actions might in Justice scales be try'd;
When ere he speak & heav'n a theam suppli'd,
Hed melt ye rockiest hearts like Moses to a tide.
But now he setts, his paines & toiles are o're,
& heav'n rewards ye seer with all his store:
He's spent wth doing good, & now lies down at ease
Stretcht on ye Pillows of æternall peace.
So ye fam'd Pithian Priestess when her soul
With ye demanded Oracle is full,
Vext with ye God yt rages in her breast,
Nature is tir'd, her spirits are opprest,
She flyes to sacred groves, & sinkes away to rest.
poem by Thomas Parnell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Psalm 103 part 2
v.8-18
L. M.
God's gentle chastisement; or, His tender mercy to his people.
The Lord, how wondrous are his ways!
How firm his truth! how large his grace!
He takes his mercy for his throne,
And thence he makes his glories known.
Not half so high his power hath spread
The starry heav'ns above our head,
As his rich love exceeds our praise,
Exceeds the highest hopes we raise.
Not half so far hath nature placed
The rising morning from the west,
As his forgiving grace removes
The daily guilt of those he loves.
How slowly doth his wrath arise!
On swifter wings salvation flies;
And if he lets his anger burn,
How soon his frowns to pity turn
Amidst his wrath compassion shines;
His strokes are lighter than our sins
And while his rod corrects his saints,
His ear indulges their complaints.
So fathers their young sons chastise
With gentle hand and melting eyes;
The children weep beneath the smart,
And move the pity of their heart.
PAUSE.
The mighty God, the wise and just,
Knows that our frame is feeble dust;
And will no heavy loads impose
Beyond the strength that he bestows.
He knows how soon our nature dies,
Blasted by every wind that flies;
Like grass we spring, and die as soon,
Or morning flowers that fade at noon.
But his eternal love is sure
To all the saints, and shall endure;
From age to age his truth shall reign,
Nor children's children hope in vain.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On The Rising Of The Sun
Look, look, brave Sol doth peep up from beneath,
Shows us his golden face, doth on us breathe;
He also doth compass us round with glories,
Whilst he ascends up to his highest stories.
Where he his banner over us displays,
And gives us light to see our works and ways.
Nor are we now, as at the peep of light,
To question, is it day, or is it night?
The night is gone, the shadows fled away,
And we now most sure are that it is day.
Our eyes behold it, and our hearts believe it;
Nor can the wit of man in this deceive it.
And thus it is when Jesus shows his face,
And doth assure us of his love and grace.
poem by John Bunyan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Psalm 92 part 2
v.12ff
L. M.
The church is the garden of God.
Lord, 'tis a pleasant thing to stand
In gardens planted by thine hand;
Let me within thy courts be seen,
Like a young cedar, fresh and green.
There grow thy saints in faith and love,
Blest with thine influence from above;
Not Lebanon with all its trees
Yields such a comely sight as these.
The plants of grace shall ever live;
(Nature decays, but grace must thrive
Time, that doth all things else impair,
Still makes them flourish strong and fair.
Laden with fruits of age, they show
The Lord is holy, just, and true;
None that attend his gates shall find
A God unfaithful or unkind.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Psalm 80
The church's prayer under affliction; or, The vineyard of God wasted.
Great Shepherd of thine Israel,
Who didst between the cherubs dwell,
And lead the tribes, thy chosen sheep,
Safe through the desert and the deep;
Thy church is in the desert now,
Shine from on high and guide us through;
Turn us to thee, thy love restore,
We shall be saved and sigh no more.
Great God, whom heav'nly hosts obey,
How long shall we lament and pray,
And wait in vain thy kind return?
How long shall thy fierce anger burn?
Instead of wine and cheerful bread
Thy saints with their own tears are fed:
Turn us to thee, thy love restore,
We shall be saved, and sigh no more.
PAUSE I.
Hast thou not planted with thy hands
A lovely vine in heathen lands?
Did not thy power defend it round,
And heav'nly dews enrich the ground?
How did the spreading branches shoot,
And bless the nations with the fruit!
But now, dear Lord, look down and see
Thy mourning vine, that lovely tree.
Why is its beauty thus defaced?
Why hast thou laid her fences waste?
Strangers and foes against her join,
And every beast devours the vine.
Return, Almighty God, return,
Nor let thy bleeding vineyard mourn;
Turn us to thee, thy love restore,
We shall be saved, and sigh no more.
PAUSE II.
Lord, when this vine in Canaan grew,
Thou wast its strength and glory too;
Attacked in vain by all its foes,
Till the fair Branch of Promise rose:
Fair Branch, ordained of old to shoot
From David's stock, from Jacob's root;
Himself a noble vine, and we
The lesser branches of the tree.
'Tis thy own Son; and he shall stand
Girt with thy strength at thy right hand;
Thy first-born Son, adorned and blest
With power and grace above the rest.
O for his sake attend our cry,
Shine on thy churches lest they die;
Turn us to thee, thy love restore,
We shall be saved, and sigh no more.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Of Death
Death, as a king rampant and stout
The world he dare engage;
He conquers all, yea, and doth rout
The great, strong, wise, and sage.
No king so great, nor prince so strong,
But death can make to yield,
Yea, bind and lay them all along,
And make them quit the field.
Where are the victors of the world,
With all their men of might?
Those that together kingdoms hurl'd,
By death are put to flight.
How feeble is the strongest hand,
When death begins to gripe!
The giant now leaves off to stand,
Much less withstand and fight.
The man that hath a lion's face
Must here give place and bend,
Yea, though his bones were bars of brass,
'Tis vain here to contend.
Submit he must to feeble ones,
To worms who will enclose
His skin and flesh, sinews and bones,
And will thereof dispose
Among themselves, as merchants do
The prizes they have got;
Or as the soldiers give unto
Each man the share and lot,
Which they by dint of sword have won,
From their most daring foe;
While he lies by as still as stone,
Not knowing what they do.
Beauty death turns to rottenness,
And youth to wrinkled face;
The witty he brings to distress,
And wantons to disgrace.
The wild he tames, and spoils the mirth
Of all that wanton are,
He takes the worldling from his worth,
And poor man from his care.
Death favours none, he lays at all,
Of all sorts and degree;
Both old and young, both great and small,
Rich, poor, and bound, and free.
No fawning words will flatter him,
Nor threat'nings make him start;
He favours none for worth or kin,
All must taste of his dart.
What shall I say? the graves declare
That death shall conquer all;
There lie the skulls, dust, bones, and there
The mighty daily fall.
The very looks of death are grim
And ghastly to behold;
Yea, though but in a dead man's skin,
When he is gone and cold.
How 'fraid are some of dead men's beds,
And others of their bones;
They neither care to see their heads,
Nor yet to hear their groans.
Now all these things are but the shade
And badges of his coat;[3]
The glass that runs, the scythe and spade,
Though weapons more remote:
Yet such as make poor mortals shrink
And fear, when they are told,
These things are signs that they must drink
With death; O then how cold.
It strikes them to the heart! how do
They study it to shun!
Indeed who can bear up, and who
Can from these shakings run?
But how much more then when he comes
To grapple with thy heart;
To bind with thread thy toes and thumbs,[4]
And fetch thee in his cart?
Then will he cut thy silver cord,
And break thy golden bowl;
Yea, break that pitcher which the Lord
Made cabin for thy soul.
Thine eyes, that now are quick of sight,
Shall then no way espy
How to escape this doleful plight,
For death will make thee die.
Those legs that now can nimbly run,
Shall then with faintness fail
To take one step, death's dart to shun,
When he doth thee assail.
That tongue that now can boast and brag
Shall then by death be tied
So fast, as not to speak or wag,
Though death lies by thy side.
Thou that didst once incline thine ear
Unto the song and tale,
Shall only now death's message hear,
While he, with face most pale,
Doth reason with thee how thy days
Hath hitherto been spent;
And what have been thy deeds and ways,
Since God thee time hath lent.
Then will he so begin to tear
Thy body from thy soul,
And both from life, if now thy care
Be not on grace to roll.
Death puts on things another face
Than we in health do see:
Sin, Satan, hell, death, life and grace
Now great and weighty be.
Yea, now the sick man's eye is set
Upon a world to come:
He also knows too without let[5]
That there must be his home.
Either in joy, in bliss and light,
Or sorrow, woe, and grief;
Either with Christ and saints in white,
Or fiends, without relief.
But, O! the sad estate that then
They will be in that die
Both void of grace and life! poor men!
How will they fear and cry.
Ha! live I may not, though I would
For life give more than all;
And die I dare not, though I should
The world gain by my fall.
No, here he must no longer stay,
He feels his life run out,
His night is come, also the day
That makes him fear and doubt.
He feels his very vitals die,
All waxeth pale and wan;
Nay, worse, he fears to misery
He shortly must be gone.
Death doth already strike his heart
With his most fearful sting
Of guilt, which makes his conscience start,
And quake at every thing.
Yea, as his body doth decay
By a contagious grief,
So his poor soul doth faint away
Without hope or relief.
Thus while the man is in this scare,
Death doth still at him lay;
Live, die, sink, swim, fall foul or fair,[6]
Death still holds on his way.
Still pulling of him from his place,
Full sore against his mind;
Death like a sprite stares in his face,
And doth with links him bind.
And carries him into his den,
In darkness there to lie,
Among the swarms of wicked men
In grief eternally.
For only he that God doth fear
Will now be counted wise:
Yea, he that feareth him while here,
He only wins the prize.
'Tis he that shall by angels be
Attended to that bliss
That angels have; for he, O he,
Of glory shall not miss.
Those weapons and those instruments
Of death, that others fright:
Those dreadful fears and discontents
That brings on some that night.
That never more shall have a day,
Brings this man to that rest
Which none can win but only they
Whom God hath called and blest
With the first fruits of saving grace,
With faith, hope, love, and fear
Him to offend; this man his face
In visions high and clear,
Shall in that light which no eye can
Approach unto, behold
The rays and beams of glory, and
Find there his name enroll'd,
Among those glittering starts of light
That Christ still holdeth fast
In his right hand with all his might,
Until that danger's past,
That shakes the world, and most hath dropt
Into grief and distress,
O blessed then is he that's wrapt
In Christ his righteousness.
This is the man death cannot kill,
For he hath put on arms;
Him sin nor Satan hath not skill
To hurt with all their charms.
A helmet on his head doth stand,
A breastplate on his heart:
A shield also is in his hand,
That blunteth every dart.
Truth girds him round the reins, also
His sword is on his thigh;
His feet in shoes of peace do go
The ways of purity.
His heart it groaneth to the Lord,
Who hears him at his call,
And doth him help and strength afford,
Wherewith he conquers all.
Thus fortified, he keeps the field
While death is gone and fled;
And then lies down upon his shield
Till Christ doth raise the dead.
poem by John Bunyan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet 77: Those Looks, Whose Beams Be Joy
Those looks, whose beams be joy, whose motion is delight,
That face, whose lecture shows what perfect beauty is:
That presence, which doth give dark hearts a living light:
That grace, which Venus weeps that she herself doth miss:
That hand, which without touch holds more than Atlas might:
Those lips, which make death's pay a mean price for a kiss:
That skin, skin, whose passe-praise hue scorns this poor term of white:
Those words, which do sublime the quintessence of bliss:
That voice, which makes the soul plant himself in the ears:
That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be,
As constru'd in true speech, the name of heav'n it bears,
Makes me in my best thought and quiet'st judgment see,
That in no more but these I might be fully blest:
Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the rest.
poem by Philip Sidney
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Night
Through that pure virgin shrine,
That sacred veil drawn o'er Thy glorious noon,
That men might look and live, as glowworms shine,
And face the moon,
Wise Nicodemus saw such light
As made him know his God by night.
Most blest believer he!
Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes
Thy long-expected healing wings could see,
When Thou didst rise!
And, what can never more be done,
Did at midnight speak with the Sun!
Oh who will tell me where
He found Thee at that dead and silent hour?
What hallowed solitary ground did bear
So rare a flower,
Within whose sacred leaves did lie
The fullness of the Deity?
No mercy-seat of gold,
No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone,
But His own living works did my Lord hold
And lodge alone;
Where trees and herbs did watch and peep
And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.
Dear night! this world's defeat;
The stop to busy fools; care's check and curb;
The day of spirits; my soul's calm retreat
Which none disturb!
Christ's progress, and His prayer time;
The hours to which high Heaven doth chime;
God's silent, searching flight;
When my Lord's head is filled with dew, and all
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;
His still, soft call;
His knocking time; the soul's dumb watch,
When spirits their fair kindred catch.
Were all my loud, evil days
Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent,
Whose peace but by some angel's wing or voice
Is seldom rent,
Then I in heaven all the long year
Would keep, and never wander here.
But living where the sun
Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire
Themselves and others, I consent and run
To every mire,
And by this world's ill-guiding light,
Err more than I can do by night.
There is in God - some say -
A deep but dazzling darkness, as men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they
See not all clear.
Oh for that night, where I in Him
Might live invisible and dim!
poem by Henry Vaughan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
SOnnet LXXIII
BEing my selfe captyued here in care,
My hart, whom none with seruile bands can tye:
but the fayre tresses of your golden hayre,
breaking his prison forth to you doth fly.
Lyke as a byrd that in ones hand doth spy
desired food, to it doth make his flight:
euen so my hart, that wont on your fayre eye
to feed his fill, flyes backe vnto your sight.
Doe you him take, and in your bosome bright,
gently encage, that he may be your thrall:
perhaps he there may learne with rare delight,
to sing your name and prayses ouer all.
That it hereafter may you not repent,
him lodging in your bosome to haue lent.
poem by Edmund Spenser
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hymn 74
The church the garden of Christ.
SS 4:12-15; 5:1.
We are a garden walled around,
Chosen and made peculiar ground;
A little spot enclosed by grace
Out of the world's wide wilderness.
Like trees of myrrh and spice we stand,
Planted by God the Father's hand;
And all his springs in Zion flow,
To make the young plantation grow.
Awake, O, heav'nly wind! and come,
Blow on this garden of perfume;
Spirit divine! descend and breathe
A gracious gale on plants beneath.
Make our best spices flow abroad,
To entertain our Savior God
And faith, and love, and joy appear,
And every grace be active here.
[Let my Beloved come and taste
His pleasant fruits at his own feast:
"I come, my spouse, I come!" he cries,
With love and pleasure in his eyes.
Our Lord into his garden comes,
Well pleased to smell our poor perfumes,
And calls us to a feast divine,
Sweeter than honey, milk, or wine.
"Eat of the tree of life, my friends,
The blessings that my Father sends;
Your taste shall all my dainties prove,
And drink abundance of my love:"
Jesus, we will frequent thy board,
And sing the bounties of our Lord;
But the rich food on which we live
Demands more praise than tongues can give.]
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hope Dieth: Hope Liveth
Strong are thine arms, O love, & strong
Thine heart to live, and love, and long;
But thou art wed to grief and wrong:
Live, then, and long, though hope be dead!
Live on, & labour thro’ the years!
Make pictures through the mist of tears,
Of unforgotten happy fears,
That crossed the time ere hope was dead.
Draw near the place where once we stood
Amid delight’s swift-rushing flood,
And we and all the world seemed good
Nor needed hope now cold and dead.
Dream in the dawn I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be!
Dream that thou layest lips on me!
Wake, wake to clasp hope’s body dead!
Count o’er and o’er, and one by one
The minutes of the happy sun
That while agone on kissed lips shone,
Count on, rest not, for hope is dead.
Weep, though no hair’s breadth thou shalt move
The living Earth, the heaven above
By all the bitterness of love!
Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!
Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,
Life hath no joy, and Death no peace:
The years change not, though they decrease,
For hope is dead, for hope is dead.
Speak, love, I listen: far away
I bless the tremulous lips, that say,
“Mock not the afternoon of day,
Mock not the tide when hope is dead!”
I bless thee, O my love, who say’st:
“Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste;
I hold Love’s hand, and make no haste
Down the long way, now hope is dead.
With other names do we name pain,
The long years wear our hearts in vain.
Mock not our loss grown into gain,
Mock not our lost hope lying dead.
Our eyes gaze for no morning-star,
No glimmer of the dawn afar;
Full silent wayfarers we are
Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.
Behold with lack of happiness
The master, Love, our hearts did bless
Lest we should think of him the less:
Love dieth not, though hope is dead!”
poem by William Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Psalm 107 part 2
Correction for sin, and release by prayer.
From age to age exalt his name;
God and his grace are still the same;
He fills the hungry soul with food,
And feeds the poor with every good.
But if their hearts rebel and rise
Against the God that rules the skies;
If they reject his heav'nly word,
And slight the counsels of the Lord
He'll bring their spirits to the ground,
And no deliv'rer shall be found;
Laden with grief, they waste their breath
In darkness and the shades of death.
Then to the Lord they raise their cries;
He makes the dawning light arise,
And scatters all that dismal shade
That hung so heavy round their head.
He cuts the bars of brass in two,
And lets the smiling pris'ners through;
Takes off the load of guilt and grief,
And gives the lab'ring soul relief.
O may the sons of men record
The wondrous goodness of the Lord
How great his works! how kind his ways!
Let every tongue pronounce his praise.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hymn 150
The offices of Christ. From several scriptures.
Join all the glorious names
Of wisdom, love, and power,
That ever mortals knew,
That angels ever bore:
All are too mean to speak his worth,
Too mean to set my Savior forth.
But O what gentle terms,
What condescending ways,
Doth our Redeemer use
To teach his heav'nly grace!
Mine eyes with joy and wonder see
What forms of love he bears for me.
[Arrayed in mortal flesh,
He like an angel stands,
And holds the promises
And pardons in his hands;
Commissioned from his Father's throne
To make his grace to mortals known.]
[Great Prophet of my God,
My tongue would bless thy name;
By thee the joyful news
Of our salvation came:
The joyful news of sins forgiv'n,
Of hell subdued, and peace with heav'n.]
[Be thou my Counsellor,
My Pattern, and my Guide;
And through this desert land
Still keep me near thy side:
O let my feet ne'er run astray,
Nor rove, nor seek the crooked way.]
[I love my Shepherd's voice,
His watchful eyes shall keep
My wand'ring soul among
The thousands of his sheep:
He feeds his flock, he calls their names,
His bosom bears the tender lambs.]
[To this dear Surety's hand
Will I commit my cause;
He answers and fulfils
His Father's broken laws:
Behold my soul at freedom set!
My Surety paid the dreadful debt.]
[Jesus, my great High Priest,
Offered his blood, and died;
My guilty conscience seeks
No sacrifice beside:
His powerful blood did once atone,
And now it pleads before the throne.]
[My Advocate appears
For my defence on high;
The Father bows his ears,
And lays his thunder by:
Not all that hell or sin can say
Shall turn his heart, his love away.]
[My dear Almighty Lord,
My Conqueror and my King!
Thy sceptre and thy sword,
Thy reigning grace I sing:
Thine is the power; behold, I sit
In willing bonds before thy feet.]
[Now let my soul arise,
And tread the tempter down;
My Captain leads me forth
To conquest and a crown:
A feeble saint shall win the day,
Though death and hell obstruct the way.]
Should all the hosts of death,
And powers of hell unknown,
Put their most dreadful forms
Of rage and mischief on,
I shall be safe, for Christ displays
Superior power, and guardian grace.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
As Time One Day by me did Pass
AS Time one day by me did pass,
Through a large dusky glass
He held, I chanc'd to look,
And spied his curious book
Of past days, where sad Heav'n did shed
A mourning light upon the dead.
Many disorder'd lives I saw,
And foul records, which thaw
My kind eyes still, but in
A fair, white page of thin
And ev'n, smooth lines, like the sun's rays,
Thy name was writ, and all thy days.
O bright and happy kalendar !
Where youth shines like a star
All pearl'd with tears, and may
Teach age the holy way ;
Where through thick pangs, high agonies,
Faith into life breaks, and Death dies.
As some meek night-piece which day quails,
To candle-light unveils :
So by one beamy line
From thy bright lamp, did shine
In the same page thy humble grave,
Set with green herbs, glad hopes and brave.
Here slept my thought's dear mark ! which dust
Seem'd to devour, like rust ;
But dust—I did observe—
By hiding doth preserve ;
As we for long and sure recruits,
Candy with sugar our choice fruits.
O calm and sacred bed, where lies
In death's dark mysteries
A beauty far more bright
Than the noon's cloudless light ;
For whose dry dust green branches bud,
And robes are bleach'd in the Lamb's blood.
Sleep, happy ashes !—blessed sleep !—
While hapless I still weep ;
Weep that I have outliv'd
My life, and unreliev'd
Must—soullesse shadow !—so live on,
Though life be dead, and my joys gone.
poem by Henry Vaughan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On Promising Fruitfulness of a Tree
A comely sight indeed it is to see
A world of blossoms on an apple-tree:
Yet far more comely would this tree appear,
If all its dainty blooms young apples were.
But how much more might one upon it see,
If all would hang there till they ripe should be.
But most of all in beauty 'twould abound,
If then none worm-eaten should there be found.
But we, alas! do commonly behold
Blooms fall apace, if mornings be but cold.
They too, which hang till they young apples are,
By blasting winds and vermin take despair,
Store that do hang, while almost ripe, we see
By blust'ring winds are shaken from the tree,
So that of many, only some there be,
That grow till they come to maturity.
Comparison.
This tree a perfect emblem is of those
Which God doth plant, which in his garden grows,
Its blasted blooms are motions unto good,
Which chill affections do nip in the bud.
Those little apples which yet blasted are,
Show some good purposes, no good fruits bear.
Those spoiled by vermin are to let us see,
How good attempts by bad thoughts ruin'd be.
Those which the wind blows down, while they are green,
Show good works have by trials spoiled been.
Those that abide, while ripe upon the tree,
Show, in a good man, some ripe fruit will be.
Behold then how abortive some fruits are,
Which at the first most promising appear.
The frost, the wind, the worm, with time doth show,
There flows, from much appearance, works but few.
poem by John Bunyan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Bible in Poetry: Revelation 22
The River of Life:
1 And then the angel showed to me
The river of water of life,
As clear as crystal, and which flowed,
From the throne of God and the Lamb,
2 And down the city’s middle street.
On either side of river stood,
Tree of life, with twelve crops of fruit,
And yielding fruit on every month.
The leaves of tree healed all nations.
3 No longer will there be a curse.
The throne of God and of the Lamb
In city, and servants serve Him.
4 They’ll see His face then directly;
His name will be on their foreheads.
5 There will be no more night at all.
They will not need a lamp-light’s help,
Nor light of sun, for God gives light.
And they will reign forever, ev’r.
6 The angel turned and said to me,
'These words are trustworthy and true.
The God of spirits of prophets,
Sent angel to show his servants,
The things that must take place sooner.'
Jesus Is Coming:
7 'Behold, I am then coming soon!
Blessed is he who keeps the words
Of the prophecy in this book.'
8 I, John, heard and saw all these things.
And when I’d heard and seen them all,
I fell down to worship at feet
Of angel who showed them to me.
9He said to me, 'Do not do it!
I’m a fellow servant with you
And with your brothers, the prophets,
And all who keep words of this book.
Therefore, you worship the Lord, God! '
10 He told me then, 'Don’t seal the words
Of prophecy of this book for,
The time is near as prophesied.
11 Let him who wrongs, so continue;
Let him who’s vile, then, continue;
Let him who does the right, do so;
Let him who’s holy, holy be.'
12 'Behold, I am then coming soon!
With Me is my reward for all;
And I will give to everyone,
According to what he has done.
13 I’m Alpha and the Omega,
First and Last, Beginning and End.
14 'Blessed are those who wash their robes,
That they have right to tree of life,
And go through gates of the City.
15 Outside are dogs, with magic arts,
The sexually immoral ones,
The murderers, idolaters,
And all who love, practice falsehoods.
16 'I, Jesus, have sent my angel,
To testify to all churches:
I am the Root, David’s Offspring,
The Morning Star that’s ever bright.'
17 The Spirit and the bride say, 'Come! '
Let him who hears say, 'Come! Also.”
“Whoev’r is thirsty, let him come;
Whoever wishes let him take
The free gift of Water of Life.
18 I warn all those who hear the words
Of prophecy of this great Book:
If one adds anything to them,
Then God will add to him the plagues
That are described in this God’s Book.
19 If anyone takes words away
Then, from this Book of prophecy,
God too will take away from him,
His share in tree of life as well
As, in the holy city too,
Which are described in this great Book.
20 Whoever testifies to these
Things says, 'Yes, I am coming soon.'
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus. Amen
21The grace of Lord Jesus Christ be
With God's people always. Amen.
(7-16-2007)
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sestina Of The Tramp-Royal
Speakin' in general, I 'ave tried 'em all,
The 'appy roads that take you o'er the world.
Speakin' in general, I 'ave found them good
For such as cannot use one bed too long,
But must get 'ence, the same as I 'ave done,
An' go observin' matters till they die.
What do it matter where or 'ow we die,
So long as we've our 'ealth to watch it all --
The different ways that different things are done,
An' men an' women lovin' in this world --
Takin' our chances as they come along,
An' when they ain't, pretendin' they are good?
In cash or credit -- no, it aren't no good;
You 'ave to 'ave the 'abit or you'd die,
Unless you lived your life but one day long,
Nor didn't prophesy nor fret at all,
But drew your tucker some'ow from the world,
An' never bothered what you might ha' done.
But, Gawd, what things are they I 'aven't done?
I've turned my 'and to most, an' turned it good,
In various situations round the world --
For 'im that doth not work must surely die;
But that's no reason man should labour all
'Is life on one same shift; life's none so long.
Therefore, from job to job I've moved along.
Pay couldn't 'old me when my time was done,
For something in my 'ead upset me all,
Till I 'ad dropped whatever 'twas for good,
An', out at sea, be'eld the dock-lights die,
An' met my mate -- the wind that tramps the world!
It's like a book, I think, this bloomin' world,
Which you can read and care for just so long,
But presently you feel that you will die
Unless you get the page you're readin' done,
An' turn another -- likely not so good;
But what you're after is to turn 'em all.
Gawd bless this world! Whatever she 'ath done --
Excep' when awful long -- I've found it good.
So write, before I die, "'E liked it all!"
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!