Now And Afterwards
TWO hands upon the breast,
And labor's done;
Two pale feet crossed in rest--
The race is won;
Two eyes with coin-weights shut,
And all tears cease;
Two lips where grief is mute,
Anger at peace':--
So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot
God in his kindness answereth not.
'Two hands to work addrest
Aye for His praise;
Two feet that never rest
Walking His ways;
Two eyes that look above
Through all their tears;
Two lips still breathing love,
Not wrath, nor fear';
So pray we afterwards, low on our knees;
Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these!
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Related quotes
Father, Can you see me?
Can You See Me Father?
Father, can you see me?
Father, can you help me through this night?
Father, are you with me?
I look up at the sky, and wonder why, I feel so alone now...
Father, will you help me?
Im afraid to close my eyes.
Father, can you hear me?
Father, can you see me?
Father, if I sleep now, will you be watching over me this night?
Father, can you hear me?
Father, can you see me?
Father, the world I see is so much larger, than I remember when you were here with me.
Father, can you hear me?
Father, can you see me?
Father, can you help me stand own my own two feet once more?
Father, Im on my knees, looking at the sky, looking for your eyes.
Father, I've lost my way, Lord, I pray for your guidance once more.
Father, what was your will, Lord, it was not mine.
Father, can you hear me?
Father, can you see me?
Father, as I pray for your will, please come and show me the way, dear Lord I pray.
Amen
poem by Rose Rosado
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The Camp Within the West
O DID you see a troop go by
Way-weary and oppressed,
Dead kisses on the drooping lip
And a dead heart in the breast?
Yea, I have seen them one by one
Way-weary and oppressed,
And when I asked them, ‘Whither speed?’
They answered, ‘To the West!’
And were they pale as pale could be—
Death-pale with haunted eyes,
And did you see the hot white dust
Range round their feet and rise?
Oh, they were pale as pale could be,
And pale as an embered leaf;
The hot white dust had risen, but
They laid it with their grief.
Did no one say the way is long,
And crave a little rest?
Oh no, they said, ‘The night is nigh,
Our camp is in the West!’
And did pain pierce their feet, as though
The way with thorns were set,
And were they visited by strange
Dark angels of regret?
Oh yea, and some were mute as death,
Though shot by many a dart,
With them the salt of inward tears
Went stinging through the heart.
And how are these wayfarers called,
And whither do they wend?
The Weary-Hearted—and their road
At sunset hath and end.
Shed tears for them…Nay, nay, no tears!
They yearn for endless rest;
Perhaps large stars will burn above
Their camp within the West.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Accession
ONCE I loved, and my heart bowed down,
Subject and slave, for Love was a King;
He sat above with sceptre and crown,
Turning his eyes from my sorrowing.
The laugh of a god on his lips lay light--
His lips victorious that mocked my pain,
And I mourned in the cold and the outer night,
And my tears and my prayers were vain.
Now the old spell is over and done,
Myself I wear the ermine and gold,
My brows are crowned, I ascend the throne,
I have taken the sceptre and orb to hold.
I smile victorious, set far above
The music of voices that moan and pray,
My feet are wet with the tears of love,
And I turn my eyes away.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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For My Father... The Slip, Falling
The slip...falling...
Our Father. I beg
The begging. Kneel.
In kneeling, blooded flesh.
Bloody hands' supplication.
Do not lift my soul, eyes, heart.
Not now. Not this day.
I will not pray, but
Our Father...
Hundreds of staples in my
Creator's legs...
Eyes open to ceiling, tears icing
Cold, stainless...stained
Pain.
Sheeted, still form.
Cold hands.
Our Father...my Father-
Why?
'Daughter, ' whispered split lips,
'I love you.'
The slip...falling...
Our Father!
His eyes, mine. Heart, soul...
Steel belief again, rain prayer
To reality.
Reality to prayer...
Our Father...
Where the compassion suffered
On your cross...
Where, the divine guiding...
Surgeons' hands, bloody.
Tears...blood.
Our Father.
Too high this price...for my
Pauper Father.
Where, your salvation...
The slip...falling...
Our Father.
Hear you curses
Louder than prayer?
Clothe demons, not angels?
Do you hear me? Watch me?
See me place yellow roses
On this stone.
The stone which set you free...
With my Father...
Imprisons me.
poem by Elysabeth Faslund
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The Working Man
Close your eyes my weary one
Rest your head and sleep
Although your day is done
Tomorrow, you might sit and weep.
Because outside your window,
There stand many barren trees
Looking like the empty hopes,
With the leaves, dying like dreams.
I have live many years
Seen and shed many tears,
With bloody hands and busted bones,
And I have heard, that painful moan.
So rest your head my tired Man
And close your eyes and cry,
Because many families I have seen fed,
When only the Fathers had died.
And I have seen the working man
Working hard with other men at their side,
While fighting to protect and defend what they own
With only GOD, upon their side.
So close you're eyes a father
Clasp your hands together and pray,
Pray for your wife and for your Children
And pray to greet them another day.
As we have fought the battles
To put our country back on her feet
But now again, we are forsaken
So close your eyes, and weep.
But then their is your Family
And the home where you do live,
Be proud you were there when tomorrow came
And many will be proud, that you had lived.
Open your eyes my weary one
Stand up and clap your hand
Be proud of what that you have built
But be prouder because you are a working Man.
So give a laugh and and then give a cheer
For together once again we made our stand,
And forget about your worries and your fears
Because GOD does not forsake, a working Man.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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A prayer for a Lost Loved One
Silence is no silence,
fear engulfs loved ones,
voices in heads pray,
for safety of a lost one.
No news is no sign of good news;
tears roll down; down to the ground,
shakes and anger circling ascends
in and out like breathing.
Silence is no silence,
fear engulfs loved ones,
voices in heads pray,
for safety of a lost one.
Fury rises with the sun,
and stays behind with the moon.
Silent stares, lone figures
Walk up down, awaiting news. And…
No news is no sign of good news;
tears roll down; down to the ground,
shakes and anger circling ascends
in and out like breathing.
Simper a cuddle no longer possible-
weight lose, gray hallow face
sleepless, reckless nights of
curving streaking worry.
Silence is no silence,
fear engulfs loved ones,
voices in heads pray,
for safety of a lost one.
No sign, sun shines; wondering thoughts,
to the safety of a child
tears of fear, sadness, rain falls
on ovals – fear rises and…
No news is no sign of good news;
tears roll down; down to the ground,
shakes and anger circling ascends
in and out like breathing.
Communities worry, grief, feel
And hold lost ones together-
Give and build strength,
Prayers whisper from door to door.
Silence is no silence,
fear engulfs loved ones,
voices in heads pray,
for safety of a lost one.
Water rolls silently, hands folded,
head bent in silence for prayer.
Whispers of trees blow, blow to the distance
Reveals simper cuddles.
Hands folded,
head bent,
silent prayer, for lost loved one.
Silence is no silence,
fear engulfs loved ones,
voices in heads pray,
for safety of a lost one.
poem by Celine Berghmans
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A Day in the life of a Child
Cheeks dimpling
Two eyes gleam
Lips parting.
Baby's smiling.
Nose crinkling
Red mouth curls
Eyes are twinkling.
Baby's clowning.
Toes gripping
Two knees bend.
Feet are moving,
Baby's walking.
Mind wandering,
Gaze intense,
Brow is puckering,
Baby's 'pottying'
Lips smacking,
Two jaws race,
Cheeks are bulging,
Baby's eating.
Head bobbing,
Fingers twirl,
Knees are knocking,
Baby's dancing.
Eyes closing,
Two hands still.
Senses dozing,
Ssssh - Baby's sleeping.
The Bowl and The Spoon
i hear the sound of humanity's voices,
the sound of suffering and need.
i smell the fear, and i feel the anger,
of those left alone, the victims of greed.
i feel the hate of the guns and the bombing,
the terror of women and children.
i cry the tears and shed blood with them,
i hear the prayers of the dead for the living.
i feel the hunger of children left starving,
i am the anger of the unemployed in line.
i breathe the despair of those left homeless,
i am the hope of those looking for a sign.
i am the body that somehow god needed,
i am the ears the lonely pray for.
i am the eyes that see through the heart,
the prisoner walking through the last door.
i hear the sound of the baby crying,
i feel the mother walking across the room.
i am the father praying for work,
i am the bowl and i am the spoon.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Song VIII: While Ye Deemed Him A-Sleeping
Love is enough: while ye deemed him a-sleeping,
There were signs of his coming and sounds of his feet;
His touch it was that would bring you to weeping,
When the summer was deepest and music most sweet:
In his footsteps ye followed the day to its dying,
Ye went forth by his gown-skirts the morning to meet:
In his place on the beaten-down orchard-grass lying,
Of the sweet ways ye pondered left for life's trying.
Ah, what was all dreaming of pleasure anear you,
To the time when his eyes on your wistful eyes turned,
And ye saw his lips move, and his head bent to hear you,
As new-born and glad to his kindness ye yearned?
Ah, what was all dreaming of anguish and sorrow,
To the time when the world in his torment was burned,
And no god your heart from its prison might borrow,
And no rest was left, no today, no tomorrow?
All wonder of pleasure, all doubt of desire,
All blindness, are ended, and no more ye feel
If your feet treat his flowers or the flames of his fire,
If your breast meet his balms or the edge of his steel.
Change is come, and past over, no more strife, no more learning:
Now your lips and your forehead are sealed with his seal,
Look backward and smile at the thorns and the burning.
--Sweet rest, O my soul, and no fear of returning!
poem by William Morris
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An Ambassador's Prayer
Lord, please tune my ears so that they may hear
Words spoken by you that I count so dear
Then open my eyes so that they may see
Opportunities for You to work through me
Walk close to me throughout this coming week
And may my lips to all of Your love speak
And please equip my hands to reach and do
Some small work of love and kindness for You
Oh Lord, May these arms of mine by Your grace
through Your great love some struggling soul embrace
Then upon my legs place such willing feet
That walk close to You as others I greet
Blessed Holy Spirit make me I pray
An ambassador for my Lord this day
So that others may look at me and see
The beauty of Jesus shining through me
Oh Let Us Pray
Oh Father, oh Father
Come and take us by our hands
As we pray to you dear Father
For a cleansing across our land
Let us pray for the sick
And those that are old
Cling to us dear Father
We still need You, to hold
Pray for the poor
Even the beggars on the street
Help to guide them along
May they find something to eat
Let's pray for our soldiers
Who have stood up to fight
Leaving behind their families
Just to help protect our rights
Let us pray for the blind
May they finally get to see
May these prayers reach across the lands
And set many burdens free
Let's pray for love and friendship
May they spread like a wild fire
May we all love with Your passion
And burn with a true desire
so pray with us Oh Father
As we pass the hands of time
And help all hearts to heal
Starting with some friends of mine
OH LET US PRAY
wrote 2/2/2009 by Norman Hale Jr.
poem by Norman Hale
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How to Pray?
Pray incessantly;
Pray most fervently;
Pray with all your heart;
God will do His part!
Pray most sensibly;
Pray most effectively;
Pray deep from your heart;
Pray as if an art!
Pray for prolonged time;
Pray in any clime;
Pray by singing rhymes;
God’s answers chime!
Pray in holy place;
Pray with heav’nly gaze;
Pray for human race;
Pray in many ways.
Let prayers rise up high;
Let prayers pierce the sky;
Let prayers touch God’s heart,
As blessings divine start!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 11-14-2009
poem by John Celes
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The Last Supper
Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips,
And the mouth so mocking gay,
A wanton you to the finger-tips,
Who break men's hearts in play;
A thing of dust I have striven for,
Honour and manhood given for,
Headlong to ruin driven for,
And this is the last, you say. . . .
Drinking your wine with dainty sips,
Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips.
Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips,
ong have you held your sway;
I have laughed at your merry quips -
Now is my time to pay.
What we sow we must reap again;
When we laugh we must weep again;
So to-night we will sleep again,
Nor wake until Judgement Day. . . .
'Tis a poisoned wine that your palate lips,
Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips.
Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips,
Down on your knees and pray;
Pray your last ere the moment slips,
Pray ere the dark and the terror grips,
And the bright world fades away.
Pray for the peace and the rest of us:
Here comes the Shape in quest of us,
Now we must go away. . . .
You and I in the grave's eclipse,
Marie Vaux of the painted Lips.
poem by Robert William Service
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Madonna Mia
A LILY-GIRL, not made for this world's pain,
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,
Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,
Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe.
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
Beneath the flaming Lion's breast, and saw
The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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After Death
IF we must part, this parting is the best:
How would you bear to lay
Your head on some warm pillow far away--
Your head, so used to lying on my breast?
But now your pillow is cold;
Your hands have flowers, and not my hands, to hold;
Upon our bed the worn bride-linen lies.
I have put the death-money upon your eyes,
So that you should not wake up in the night.
I have bound your face with white;
I have washed you, yes, with water and not with tears,--
Those arms wherein I have slept so many years,
Those feet that hastened when they came to me,
And all your body that belonged to me.
I have smoothed your dear dull hair,
And there is nothing left to say for you
And nothing left to fear or pray for you;
And I have got the rest of life to bear:
Thank God it is you, not I, who are lying there.
If I had died
And you had stood beside
This still white bed
Where the white, scented, horrible flowers are spread,--
I know the thing it is,
And I thank God that He has spared you this.
If one must bear it, thank God it was I
Who had to live and bear to see you die,
Who have to live, and bear to see you dead.
You will have nothing of it all to bear:
You will not even know that in your bed
You lie alone. You will not miss my head
Beside you on the pillow: you will rest
So soft in the grave you will not miss my breast.
But I--but I--Your pillow and your place--
And only the darkness laid against my face,
And only my anguish pressed against my side--
Thank God, thank God, that it was you who died!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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God is Asleep
even God
needs time to sleep
spare Him this
Time with your
praise
i think he is fed-up
with all the praises
and invocations
and prayers for peace
and progress
and other prayers for
self-interest
Let us try a little bit
altruistic not
Disturbing Him
in his rest today
I think
he likes us better
on ourselves
independent of his
kindness
where we are kind
because we are
not because He is
I guess
we can write poetry
without
including his
originality
His poetic greatness
is above
board this time
we try on our
own
be glad for
He loves this
quest
on our own hands
on our own feet
with our own
heart as guide.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Factories
I have shut my little sister in from life and light
(For a rose, for a ribbon, for a wreath across my hair),
I have made her restless feet still until the night,
Locked from sweets of summer and from wild spring air;
I who ranged the meadow lands, free from sun to sun,
Free to sing and pull the buds and watch the far wings fly,
I have bound my sister till her playing-time is done -
Oh, my little sister, was it I? - was it I?
I have robbed my sister of her day of maidenhood
(For a robe, for a feather, for a trinket's restless spark),
Shut from Love till dusk shall fall, how shall she know good,
How shall she pass scatheless through the sinlit dark?
I who could be innocent, I who could be gay,
I who could have love and mirth before the light went by,
I have put my sister in her mating-time away -
Sister, my young sister, - was it I? - was it I?
I have robbed my sister of the lips against her breast
(For a coin, for the weaving of my children's lace and lawn),
Feet that pace beside the loom, hands that cannot rest,
How can she know motherhood, whose strength is gone?
I who took no heed of her, starved and labor-worn,
I against whose placid heart my sleepy gold heads lie,
Round my path they cry to me, little souls unborn,
God of Life - Creator! It was I! It was I!
poem by Margaret Widdemer
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En Tout Cas
WHEN I am glad I need your eyes
To be the stars of Paradise;
Your lips to be the seal of all
The joy life grants, and dreams recall;
Your hand, to lie my hands between
What time we walk the garden green.
But most in grief I need your face
To lean to mine in the desert place;
Your lips to mock the evil years,
To sweeten me my cup of tears,
Your eyes to shine, in cloud's despite,
Your hands to hold mine through the night.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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About The Tears
tears from your eyes
and if i be poetic enough
to calm you and
lessen your pain
i shall tell you that
tears are pearls
and that your sob
is a song of a
woman of beauty
but you cut me short
and touch my lips
with your hands
and you tell me with
the truth of your silence
you are mourning
and my poems are
not of help.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Skylark's Message
SWEET little upturned faces,
Poor little hands and feet,
Little eyes that are careworn and anxious
From hunger and want in the street,
Hear ye that skylark singing
5
Like an angel far away?
'Tis bringing to you a message
From the Golden Gates of day.
Ah, little know ye of the meadows,
Poor little blistered feet,
10
Down in the smoke of the city,
Down in the noise of the street!
But it sings of a better country,
Where tired little hearts can rest;
Of a sun that shines for ever,
15
And the love of a Father's breast.
O poor little weary spirits,
I would that ye knew its song,
For the world is very heartless,
And your journey may be long;
20
And ye need such heavenly music
To cheer you in the night,
Little hearts that are now so noble,
Little souls that are now so white.
I would that ye heard it always,
25
That sweet bird's voice within,
When the heart is sad and lonely
In the long, long struggle with sin;
Till a rest comes out of the sunset
For the labouring hands and feet,
30
And a silence has fallen for ever
On the noise and the dust of the street.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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