The Little Vagabond
Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;
But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm.
Besides, I can tell where I am used well;
Such usage in heaven will never do well.
But, if at the Church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We’d sing and we’d pray all the livelong day,
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.
Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.
And God, like a father, rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as He,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Experience (1794)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
Sex & The Church
Though the idea of compassion
Is said to be
The union of christ
And his bride, the christian
Its all very puzzling
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
All the great mystic religions
Put strong emphasis, on
Redeame this spiritual qualities
Of sex of sex
Chrstianity
Has been pretty modern
About sex
Of sex of sex of sex of sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
I think there is a union
Between the flesh and the spirit
Its sex and the church
Sex and the church
All religions mother
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Some Have Steeples. Some Don't
What do I think of church?
'Yes! '
Church?
Like in 'church' church?
'Yes! '
Well...
Some have steeples.
Some don't.
Some have people.
Some wont.
Some are religiously political.
And some are politically religious.
My vehicle is my church.
And that's all I care about.
'Oh?
So your 'car' is your church? '
Oh.
No no!
My 'body' is my church.
It is my sanctuary.
Now...
Keep in mind,
I am not devoted to keep it as pure,
As it should be.
But I do the best I can,
Not to be led away by temptation.
But everyday I pray to be forgiven,
Of those 'sins' I know I should not enjoy!
However...
You can find me anytime,
Self righteously defending...
My point of view.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Chimney Sweeper: A Little Black Thing Among The Snow
A little black thing among the snow,
Crying 'weep! 'weep!' in notes of woe!
'Where are thy father and mother? say?'
'They are both gone up to the church to pray.
Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil'd among the winter's snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his Priest and King,
Who make up a heaven of our misery.'
poem by William Blake
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Random things about my Mother
My mother whose eyes were strained
By a sadness that stained her eyes
With grey and blue hue
My mother who never blew
Out candles on a birthday cake
My mother who never knew
The thrills of flying in an airplane
My mother who forever threw
Her pearls to swine
My mother who knew
No contentment in living
My who mother never lived
To be even seventy two
My mother who it is true
Stopped living long before she died
My mother from whose mouth flew
Words of disappointment and fury
My mother whose lips
Tasted bitter tears
My mother sat impatiently
In sorrow through her years
My mother who like Kunta Kinte
Was tamed by Diabets
My mother who was tamed
By my father
My mother who was captured by my father
My mother who fought with my father
The two them struggling false teeth piercing each others flesh
My mother who my father told to go and cook the mint
My mother who would beat us and cause wounds and bruises to our skin
My mother who love to walk about
My mother who gave a toe
A day away
My mother who kiked with her stump of a leg after she lost her foot
My mother who was a great dresser
My mother who could sing
Sang on the church choir
My mother who would be at the front of the church earliest every Saturday
My mother who insisted I be baptized and save by the holy ghost
My mother had beautiful handwriting
My mother who had nine children for five different men
My mother who tried to settle down with my father
My mother who could never swim
My mother who loved to sing
My mother who would tie us up on leashes and take us for long walks through the town
My mother who sought out hand me-downs – for our clothing
My mother who was active in the Welfare Society at church so she could cream the crop for her family
My mother who instigated many a conflicts with her numerous friend was left with only a few in the end.
My mother whom I so wanted to help evolve
My mother who I helped to live
My mother who I had to let die
My mother who lives in me
poem by Fleurette Elaine Harris
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The Chimney Sweeper
A little black thing among the snow:
Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe!
Where are thy father & mother? say?
They are both gone up to the church to pray.
Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil'd among the winters snow:
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
And because I am happy & dance & sing,
They think they have done me no injury:
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King,
Who make up a heaven of our misery.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Experience (1794)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Church & The Perfect Fit
Too loose.Too long.Too short.Too big.Too small.
Describes most of the clothes we wear.
Like finding the right church that's the perfect fit
Is always a struggle of hope, patience and prayer.
God wants us to fit together with one another
With our beliefs, attitudes, patriotism and love.
No church is perfect cause their run by men
As we assemble our souls to praise Heaven above.
David wrote; 'I Know O Lord Your judgement is right'
For he was aware of what happens when we stray
It helps us maintain our moral servitude
When we gather at church, sing, worship and pray.
Christ takes each sin, each pain, each loss,
So that our lives exalt His name.
And by the power of His sacrifice upon the cross
He transforms our brokeness, weakness and shame.
Churched People
Many unconverted religious people, gather together under a steeple,
They gather in the church below, but how much of it is just for show?
Each week religiously on one day, they meet together kneel and pray.
How much does it change their ways, as they live the other six days?
Weekly as they are churched, how often are the Scriptures searched?
Does the church change their heart, as service ends and they depart?
Getting back to the daily grind, does it influence their heart and mind?
There are followers of Christianity, and there are those in Churchianity.
Is their belief just a weekly thing, as hypocritical people gather to sing?
For most do not live what they sing, after leaving their church building.
Do these men practice Churchianity, when all week they use profanity?
It makes unbelievers question why, they should even give church a try.
If it’s God’s Church, you will know, as spiritual changes begin to show.
For as Christ starts a change within, He begins to purge your daily sin.
Sad to say that many are deceived, even when they think they believe,
For their belief is in an institution; one that doesn’t have a real solution.
The only real solution is Jesus Christ, for anyone to truly have new life,
For if one believes only in their head, they shall remain spiritually dead.
Jesus Christ spoke much about this; with the man know as Nicodemus,
Jesus said you must be Born Again, if you’re to see the Kingdom friend.
Today a church has no eternal worth, if it does not preach on New Birth.
When you know Christ in your heart, your old life shall have a new start.
You must become like little children, or my friend you will die in your sin.
So today be converted in Jesus Christ, and He will give to you New Life.
(Copyright ©05/2006)
His True Church
I know many religious people, and one Church with no steeple,
A church that’s built with no walls, built on only believing souls,
Built upon an Eternal Foundation, that being our very Salvation,
Built upon The One Cornerstone, and that is Jesus Christ alone.
Many, who worship in a building, to Truth alone, are unyielding,
Building a church on tradition, God’s Truth, with man’s addition,
Added to the work finished by, Jesus Christ who reigns on high,
Ignoring His words “it is finished”, Grace by many is diminished.
Men making a way to Heaven, not by grace but religious leaven,
Building church in a human way, as they lead many souls astray,
As many souls weekly perch, in the pews of a manmade church,
Relying on their religious activity, to help them work into eternity.
“I will build my Church” He said, that was Christ, who is the Head,
Head of His True Church on earth, filled with souls, by New Birth,
All members being Born Again, into His Church, not one of men,
You’ll find, you no longer search, as a member of God’s Church.
Jesus is the Way, Truth and Life, as Head of the Church of Christ,
And each of us is a living stone, built through faith in Christ alone,
His Church He proceeds to build, to complete as His Father willed,
Leading the only True Church friend, as others shall see in the end.
Lydia Humphrey
Back and forth, back and forth, to and from the church,
With my Bible under my arm
Till I was gray and old;
Unwedded, alone in the world,
Finding brothers and sisters in the congregation,
And children in the church.
I know they laughed and thought me queer.
I knew of the eagle souls that flew high in the sunlight,
Above the spire of the church, and laughed at the church,
Disdaining me, not seeing me.
But if the high air was sweet to them, sweet was the church to me.
It was the vision, vision, vision of the poets
Democratized!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our Lady of Health, Vailangkanni!
O Queen of Heaven, Star of Sea!
Our dear Annai Vailangkanni!
So many met a grave, watery!
Could you not stall the Tsunami?
A lady with her infant child,
Who wore stars for crown on her head,
Had appeared in a divine way,
When sailors prayed for help, that day!
The Portuguese promised to build
A church for her if she would quell
The stormy sea, threatening to kill;
And take them safe to shore God-willed!
They knelt and prayed to her with tears:
‘Mother of Jesus, take our fears;
O Spare our lives for ones all dear! ’
The Queen of Health did promptly hear.
The sea became all quiet, calm;
The ship was protected from harm;
The sailors landed on the shore
Where stood ajar, a church’s door!
Our lady with infant Jesus
Had saved their lives from Satan’s curse;
Their hearts with gratitude afilled;
By miracle, the sea was stilled!
They built a bigger church for her;
And hoisted flag of dear Mother;
The church wrought miracles with time,
As people flocked to her all clime.
O Queen of Heaven, Star of Sea!
Our dear Annai Vailangkanni!
How many died so easily!
Could you not stall the Tsunami?
Perhaps, if they had prayed to her,
She would have saved their lives, mother;
Yet, those inside the Church escaped,
As sea-water did not enter!
While many those around saw death,
Caught by the swirling killer waves,
With death and destruction galore,
The church was spared by miracle!
Pray for us, O Mother Mary!
With tears we say the Rosary;
Our lives at times do turn scary;
Our cross in life, Help us carry!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-24-2008
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Too Cold For Prayer?
The houses of worship have grown too cold.
I can't get warm in them
with all their gold.
I leave the church. I look around.
Pitiful people do I see
listening to the sound
of children starving as they cry.
I feel cold
and I ask God why?
Why do they kneel and sing and pray
in places too cold
on each Sunday?
The answers I get are all the same.
They pray to God
in a ritualistic game.
Well, I pray to God on every single day
in my own temple
in my warm way.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Church Of Women
A lie for a lie, but a truth for the truth
Church of women is made out of milk
Which their love turns to butter -er -er
Church of women will have you give praise
With a laugh, bark and stutter -er -er
Like us men like us men they are nothing like us men
Men have gargoyles round their hearts
Im on my knees but dancing
Want to worship at the church of women
Breathe em in until my head goes spinning around
Want to worship at the church
Let me worship at the church of women
Church of women is making donations of loving and giving -ing -ing
Church of women performing that miracle raising the living -ing -ing
Like us men like us men will they ever like us men?
Men have thorns around their minds
Im on my mountain preaching
Want to worship at the church of women
Breathe em in until my head goes spinning around
Want to worship at the church
Let me worship at the church of women
Lie for a lie, but a truth for the truth
Give em back their house: the walls, the doors, the floors and roof
And stop tryin to diet on the wafers and wine and submit were in control
Now lets put things right
Lets multiply the loves and kisses
til we have enough to love and eat forever
Want to worship at the church of women
I want to worship at the church of women now
Breathe em in until my head goes spinning around
Ill breathe em in until my head goes spinning round
Want to worship at the church
Let me worship at the church of women
Want to worship at the church of women
(repeat x3 and fade)
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Mother, Sweet Mother (on Mother's Day,2012)
Sweet mother,
We remember
Our stay together,
With dear father!
Can we ever
Forget your love and care?
We can never
Return your gifts, precious and rare!
Mother, you were a lady great;
Someone, no one on earth could hate;
A teacher, home-maker, top-rate;
You changed for better, our fate!
Your good nature, we can't equate;
Your roles in life, we can't under-state;
Your sacrifices, we can't enumerate;
Your example, we want to emulate.
We cannot thank you mother dear,
With words, gifts, savories, flower!
You put us on the road to God;
We pray you get the Lord's reward!
Today, you aren't alive
But, you were the queen-bee
Of our pleasant hive!
"Happy Mother's Day,2012! " dear mom,
(Late) Mrs. Stella Antoniswami, Old Chungam, Coimbatore
By loving dad (Late) and all children
Copyright by Dr John Celes 7-5-'12
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'll Give You A Flower, Mother
I’ll give you a flower, mother
I’ll give you a flower, dear
For life is but a garden
To children of 5 years
I’ll give you a flower, mother
I’ll give you a flower, dear
For to a bride, they’re lovely
Mother, hold your tears
I’ll give you a flower, mother
I’ll give you a flower, dear
I’ll lay it in your sweet hands
For our time has disappeared
I’ll give you a flower, mother
I’ll give you a flower, dear
When I see you there at heaven
When my time’s done here
poem by Whitney Albright
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My Eightieth Birthday, Today!
Eighty years have gone away,
In a somewhat pleasant way;
God is Master, then, today,
And will be mine, come what may!
As a teacher, life was good;
Life was great in womanhood!
Life was best when in childhood;
Happy I'm, upright I stood!
Duty was my prime dear thing;
God was first in everything;
Joys and woes both, life did bring;
Yet, a happy song, I sing!
Earning wealth was not my aim;
Sharing knowledge brought me fame;
Being wife was just one game;
Dust was whence I truly came!
Kith and kin do always kiss;
Still some things did go amiss;
Husband is one soul, I miss;
Life was mostly joys and bliss!
I had not done something great;
I did just all do, till date;
I didn't trust in luck or fate;
I want heaven's narrow gate!
‘All seems well, ' I'm eighty aged;
Heart feels sometimes, old and caged;
Many battles I had waged;
Life didn't happen as I gauged!
God was friend to me these years;
I have hope in Him, not fears;
Though my earthly life now nears,
I must pray, until He hears!
Fondly dedicated to dear
Mrs.P. Irudaya Mary MA., B.Ed, Teacher
Holy Family Church, Perundurai
By Dr. Celestine, wife Mrs. Mercy,
daughters Catherine & Christina
Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-08-12
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A revival does two things. First, it returns the Church from her backsliding and second, it causes the conversion of men and women; and it always includes the conviction of sin on the part of the Church. What a spell the devil seems to cast over the Church today!
quote by Billy Sunday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thank You God
Thank you God
For everything you do
You give me hope, faith and strength
When I read the Bible, it helps me learn about God more
I got so many opportunities and surprising moment that makes me happy
I am hard worker and something good happen at end
I know that I believe in God, even if I'm not Christian
I know I can count on Him to be there
I'm never alone
When I pray or tell God what is on my mind,
I know God will help me when God hear me
I'm so bless for people I met, family, and everything in my life
Thank you God
I'm giving Him my problems to take care of it
He is going keep it and I won't take it back
I'm not worry because He is handling it
I had first heard God from a friend
I'm happy to hear about Him and what He does
So don't break down, feel stress, and give up so soon
God is here for us and pray
He is father and we are his children
I go to church and it helps me a lot
Every day I'm bless that I'm still here today
Thank you God
poem by Christina Phan
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Sundays Past
On Sunday mornings you would wear a dark suit
With a tie and shiny shoes you are ready to en route
The church bells would ring calling for morning mass
While you check the weather through the window glass
A last glance in the mirror and you are on your way
You join the church goers without any further delay
Walking over uneven cobblestones in our small town
Children would jump on the sidewalks up and down
Dressed up for church everyone is wearing their best
Thinking about the priest and what they have to confess
Men lifting their dark hats as they wish a Good Morning
Then pass by the cemetery bowing heads as in mourning
The church bells now ringing louder and more demanding
Calling all sinners to mass without misunderstanding
I always knew that right then the decision was made
And it was agreed to skip church without being afraid
Through the old alley you and others took a known detour
Heading straight to the pub on the corner that is for sure
Around noon I would go to meet my father by the church
And he would talk about mass having done some research
At home my mother would just smile and shake her head
While my father gave her a wink that was hardly misread
Joking around we would eat lunch smiling with every bite
Keeping my father's Sunday secret and the world was alright
© 2011
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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Scenes from a Parish
The weekday Mass at 6 a.m.
brings old folks out
from bungalows
around the church.
They move like caterpillars
down sidewalks,
some with canes,
some on walkers.
Young Father Doyle says the Mass
and is renowned for giving
homilies on weekdays
superior to homilies
heard in other churches
even on a Sunday.
After Mass, he goes back
to the rectory to care
for a mother older than
most of his congregants.
A gracious lady, his mother
cannot move or talk
because of a stroke.
But every Sunday at noon,
when the church is overflowing
with people wanting Mass to start,
Father Doyle, in full vestments,
wheels his mother in a lump
down the middle aisle
and lifts her like a chalice
and places her in the front pew
before he ascends to the altar.
Sometimes at night,
when his mother is finally asleep,
he returns to the church
and rehearses in the dark
three hymns she long ago
asked him to sing at her funeral.
He practices the hymns
because the doctor said
she could go at any time
and when that time comes,
he doesn't want to miss a note.
The last thing she ever said was
'Son, I'll be listening.'
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Jack's Sonnet To Isabel
Jack O'reilly:
My name may be Jack but I do not stalk
your voice sounds even sweeter than sugar
if only, if only sugar could talk
it would resonate to find a lover
if it could I'm sure it would like to sing
Isabel I'm sorry I listen
but beauty in this church is what you bring
I only hear and still have the vision
which has opened the door where you do stand
I am sinning in the church of the lord
by wanting to kiss you and hold your hand
I drink the blood of God for I am bored
of confession I am a sinner here
why not sin once more with no need to fear?
poem by Daniel McCann
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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