Hope For Heaven
Grey church sits lonely on the hill,
Awaiting its next Sunday thrill.
Voices rising up to the spire,
Kept in tune by the local choir.
Regulars that every week,
Enter the door the Lord to seek.
Its rural town’s a busy place,
Harbouring a mixed human race.
On the seventh day most sleep late,
Don’t venture through the old lychgate.
They think about the open shops
And whether lunch requires pork chops.
The bells ring out, the faithful meet,
For some it is their only treat.
They catch up on the parish news,
And who will this week, clean the pews.
Then wander home their minds refreshed,
By words spoken when they were blessed.
Grey church that stands through passing time,
Listening to its own clock chime.
Could tell a million happenings,
Of centuries of natterings.
All the souls who have passed away,
Laid to their rest, and there to stay.
Such peace surrounds this house of God,
So many feet this path have trod.
But it remains steadfast and true,
All the inclement weather through.
Solitude for the broken heart,
Hope for heaven when all depart.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Church Bells Ring
The church bells ring merrily
their wake up call
for all those sinner to repent
the sins they committed all week.
In their Sunday best
looking smartly dressed,
they amble down to the church
and take their place on a pew.
After several hymns they sing,
the minister gives his address
of how the evils of the world
are creeping up on all of us.
How we must be always wary
in everything we do
as the devil is always waiting
just to ensnare you.
More prayers and hymns follow
and then they are on their way.
However, did they learning anything
while they were at church today,
sadly for a lot
what was said went in one ear
and went out the other,
for during the week
they follow the same path
and go about sinning again.
19 February 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Forgotten Church
Here stands the church
suddenly illuminated but usually ignored.
It's tucked away in the corner of the market place.
I see the spire, imagine the pews
look up at its stained glass windows
and hear the choir boys.
I relish the sound of church bells,
they calm me and the emptiness
of the market place on Sundays.
The trader's stands are packed away,
leaving bits of litter floating along
in the sunshine.
Here are the cobbles
where heels break from shoes
and women wobble.
No brightly coloured thongs hang
from rails now
or fancy petticoats.
No wafting scent of cooked chicken
or men's voices shouting
'ripe bananas'.
Here, in the heart of Romford,
the little church has always been
with its warm heart beating,
softly,
forgotten,
as people pass it by.
poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Maybe A CINO
Friend, are you a CINO faithfully, being a Christian in name only?
Christianity they don’t profess, as The Spirit they don’t possess.
Some, may dare profess a faith, never touched by God’s Grace,
Grace that when it’s received, changes hearts that have believed.
True faith’s more than knowledge of, The Lord who reigns above,
But, a faith that brings to earth, God above, through a New Birth,
Spiritual Birth, bringing into life, as Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,
Who moves upon this earthly sod, in all who truly belong to God.
There are CINOs in every church, weekly in their pews they perch,
Hearing the Word week after week, but His Truth they never seek,
And in their pews they do remain, with a heart in need of change,
Sitting there as they always have, using their faith as just a salve.
So they leave their house of faith, not changed, by God’s Grace,
Still being who they were before, they entered in a church’s door,
And back into their week they go, with very little change to show,
To those on life’s Broader Way, with whom they work day to day.
So all Christians, in only name, can cause Christ hurt and shame,
By their actions, make no mistake, for their benefit, not His sake,
When you see a Godless testimony, it may just be, in name only,
Not a True Christian, please know, but simply a professing CINO.
(Copyright ©11/2009)
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Full Time Love
(zack turner/carson chamberlain)
Pick you up on friday
About half past 8
Just time for a movie
You cant stay out late
I take you home
A little kiss at the door
Lately Im thinkin
I want a little more
Tell your daddy
Im a hard working man
And after church on sunday
Im gonna ask for your hand
If he dont like it
Well thats just tough
Ive got to have your full time love
Your undivided lovin
Is what I need
Twenty four hours a day
Seven days a week
This part time romance
It just aint enough
Ive got to have your full time love
Sunday afternoon
Finally rolls around
I get in my old truck
And I drive downtown
Your daddys waitin
He says I got bad news
Ive got to tell you son
Shes too good for you
What he dont know
Is when the sun goes down
Were gonna slip out that window
And well leave this town
Drive to memphis
Tie this thing up
Ive got to have your full time love
Your undivided lovin
Is what I need
Twenty four hours a day
Seven days a week
This part time romance
It just aint enough
Ive got to have your full time love
This part time romance
Lord it just aint enough
Ive got to have your full time love
song performed by by John Michael Montgomery
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Bredon Hill
In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
A happy noise to hear.
Here of a Sunday morning
My love and I would lie,
And see the coloured counties,
And hear the larks so high
About us in the sky.
The bells would ring to call her
In valleys miles away:
'Come all to church, good people;
Good people, come and pray.
But here my love would stay.
And I would turn and answer
Among the springing thyme,
'Oh, peal upon our wedding,
And we will hear the chime,
And come to church in time.
But when the snows at Christmas
On Bredon top were strewn,
My love rose up so early
And stole out unbeknown
And went to church alone.
They tolled the one bell only,
Groom there was none to see,
The mourners followed after,
And so to church went she,
And would not wait for me.
The bells they sound on Bredon,
And still the steeples hum.
'Come all to church, good people,' -
Oh, noisy bells, be dumb;
I hear you, I will come.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Face Of Christ
It stood alone, this old Church of grey,
tombstones scattered around in disarray.
Naming Squires and skivvies who’d lived and died
in this Hamlet, and now lay side by side.
Within, sun shafts sneak between the pews,
onto needlepoint hassocks, sewn in blues.
And as my feet slowly creep down the aisle,
the fair face of Christ on me doth smile.
From a stained glass window, arms raised, to bless
those, who find their way to this address.
He’s in radiant garments of colours bright
looking new and fresh still, in the day’s sunlight.
I see fading flowers, vases all needing renewal,
a rickety boiler, but minus its fuel.
Worn Altar cloth, of once Royal hues,
and by the door the week’s Parish News.
Such silence, all is serene and calm.,
in this bleak place, and there’s a Psalm
Carved out in stone, and in a wall well set,
sung often here, accompanied by a soft motet.
A Yew tree’s branches hang over iron gates,
the roof shows old chipped and mellowed slates,
Such sad decay lies all around, and yet
the Church lives on through each new sunset.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Night Runners Competition Counted
we enjoy counting the rats
running around at night,
when we are arriving home
on our faithful motorbike,
usually two or three rats to see,
Kayla and I have a competition
counting first spied rats we see,
who can spot local drain rats first
the biggest rats seen truthfully
are as big as healthy pet cats,
we go look at pets frequently
in BSD once a week we peep,
in at a pet shop when we watch,
a movie in expedition BSD every week
a family movie is a special treat,
our two happy daughters think it so neat
our neigbour concreted over their open drain
next door rats love their drains seldom stray,
so less rats outside rats too close we do disdain
rats who venture close in life peril cannot stay,
if any bold rats venture into our house ceiling,
these rats are disposed of poisoned very quickly
our rule is no entry for any rats poison strictly,
tropical rat best learn trespass has no pity feeling.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Haunts Of Ancient Peace
Beside the garden walls,
We walk in haunts of ancient peace.
At night we rest and go to sleep
In haunts of ancient peace.
The love and light we seek,
The words we do not need to speak,
Here in this wondrous way we keep
These haunts of ancient peace.
Let us go there again
When we need some relief
Oh, when I cant find my feet
When I need rest and sleep.
The sunday bells they chime
Around the countryside and towns
A song of harmony and rhyme
In haunts of ancient peace.
The holy grail we seek
On down by haunts of ancient peace.
We see the new jerusalem
In haunts of ancient peace.
Oh, when I cant find my feet
Oh, when I need some relief
One more time again.
You know I want to go there one more time again.
Be still in haunts of ancient peace.
(be still)
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
One Tiny Heart
Wake up and hear the bells ring out,
Proclaiming Christmas Day,
As congregations everywhere,
Kneel down in homage to pray.
Such celebrations here for us,
One birth of such acclaim,
What news! Here was a baby who,
Could cure the blind and lame.
One tiny heart beating for us,
A 'human' sent by God,
To cleanse the world of evil deeds,
When on this earth he trod.
The many words he uttered,
Were spoken to save mankind,
And even in our present days,
This babe is there to find.
So remember now one holy child,
For us he bravely died,
Our Father who is kind and true,
Will always be by our side.
Wake up and hear the bells ring out,
A truly joyous chime,
For they are saying, he is still
Here with us, for all time.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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.
Nutbush City Limit
A CHURCH HOUSE GIN HOUSE
A SCHOOL HOUSE OUT HOUSE
ON HIGHWAY NUMBER NINETEEN
THE PEOPLE KEEP THE CITY CLEAN
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
TWENTY-FIVE WAS THE SPEED LIMIT
MOTORCYCLE NOT ALLOWED IN IT
YOU GO TO THE STORE ON FRIDAY
YOU GO TO CHURCH ON SUNDAY
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
YOU GO TO THE FIELDS ON WEEKDAYS
AND HAVE A PICNIC ON LABOR DAY
YOU GO TO TOWN ON SATURDAY
BUT GO TO THE CHURCH EV'RY SUNDAY
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
NO WHISKEY FOR SALE
YOU CAN'T COP NO BAIL
SALT PORK AND MOLASSES
IS ALL YOU GET IN JAIL
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
LITTLE OLD TOWN IN TENNESSEE
THAT'S CALLED A QUIET LITTLE OLD
COMMUNITY
A ONE-HORSE TOWN YOU HAVE TO
WATCH
WHAT YOU'RE PUTTIN' DOWN IN OLD
NUTBUSH
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Born At The Right Time
Down among the reeds and rushes
A baby boy was found
His eyes as clear as centuries
His silky hair was brown
Never been lonely
Never been lied to
Never had to scuffle in fear
Nothing denied to
Born at the instant
The church bells chime
And the whole world whispering
Born at the right time
Me and my buddies we are travelling people
We like to go down to restaurant row
Spend those euro-dollars
All the way from washington to tokyo
I see them in the airport lounge
Upon their mothers breast
They follow me with open eyes
Their uninvited guest
Never been lonely
Never been lied to
Never had to scuffle in fear
Nothing denied to
Born at the instant
The church bells chime
And the whole world whispering
Born at the right time
Too many people on the bus from the airport
Too many holes in the crust of the earth
The planet groans
Every time it registers another birth
But among the reeds and rushes
A baby girl was found
Her eyes as clear as centuries
Her silky hair was brown
Never been lonely
Never been lied to
Never had to scuffle in fear
Nothing denied to
Born at the instant
The church bells chime
And the whole world whispering
Born at the right time
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Race Towards Home
No need to sit in despair for very soon we will meet Him in the air.
We need to prioritize our life and begin with The Lord Jesus Christ.
Not only is He The Only Way but the author and finisher of our Faith.
In this life we sometimes call a race; He alone sets the winning pace.
Upon Jesus Christ we must fix our eyes if we desire to win the prize.
We must be focused upon The Lord and not run on our own accord.
One thing you must consider too, is get rid of all that hinders you.
For in this race if you want to win, you must cast aside your sin.
Consider more than grievous sin, all your cares you must cast on Him.
Anything that wastes your time could impede you at the finish line.
No need to enter leery, with Christ you will run and not grow weary.
When you’re established in the race you receive God’s Awesome Grace.
Faith’s not hindered by many things as we sore with eagle’s wings.
Remembering those who finished before gives you strength to endure.
Many run the race as fools but you only finish if you obey the rules.
Some who believe they had a start will only hear the Lord say depart.
But a faithful race will warrant Christ saying well done faithful servant.
This earthly race soon will end, and then we’ll see our Lord and friend.
On the day He parts the skies; all the faithful will gain the prize.
From this earth the Church will rise to gain a body that never dies.
Many have entered without a change to find they ran their race in vain.
For the reason that they must depart is they ran without their heart.
Sun Is Rising
Strange room - In a cold cold city
I got to know this place so well
The lights are shining - Make it oh so pretty
In the church - of the buy and sell
I dreamt I was a young boy
My home fire is burning
I hear the ringing of the bells
Calling out - for the broken hearted
Who lost their souls in the wishing well
Lord help the sinners - Lord please hear what I say
Lord help the dying - Let their fears fall away
The key to the long lost door
In the darkest of days
Show us the guiding light - Let our fears fall away
Sun is rising - sun is rising - sun is rising
Let the good Lord show us the way
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
My Neighbours Proclaim I Am Not A Christian
My neighbours say I am not a Christian...
because I rarely proudly go to church
weekly week by week proudly as they do.
Yet I worship God spend time with God...
every day we meet still have so much to say
while God’s poor suffer daily for them I pray.
Worship for me cannot be but once one day a week...
among those already happy proudly saved
while in the wilderness still cry our Lord's lost sheep?
Sermons for those already saved these words do not stay...
where Holy Spirit and I walk among sinners weak
my energy dissipates as I run the race to ease pain of sinners weak?
This may be all in vain I unseen do as their cry...
comes to me ever anew but with their pain I remain
for the flock has shepherds many these poor have not any?
God I miss fellowship in worship with my fellow man...
but in the pulpit I rarely stand within any given community
yet I pray for local churches who support the weak at every stand.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dark Victory 11/11/18
The Bells ring out great Peals of joy.
The war is won, Great Albion.
It merely cost a million dead,
a generation lost and done.
To you, fate tendered victory sweet,
to the Germans, a bitter peace.
There, fatherless boys, abed, asleep,
plot revenge for their deceased.
In the Wilfred Owen house;
no alloyed joy to meld with sorrow:
That day they learned their son had died
They'll dress the house in Black tomorrow.
His mother knew before word came,
she had a sense her son was gone.
That he'd be among the last to fall
for the glory of Great Albion
He fought almost unto the end,
dying in the war's last week.
When Mortal flesh and bullets meet
Poets are silenced when machine guns speak..
There is a pathos in his fate,
dying in the last week of war
Like the man who sailed the Ocean deep,
only to drown in sight of shore.
The poet Wilfred Owen, died in an attack on a German Machine gun nest on 11/04/1918, one week before the Germans sued for peace. His parents received word that their only son had died just as the Church bells were rung to celebrate the Armistice. Albion is a archaic name for Great Britain
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Little Country Town
The creek down to a trickle and the paddocks looking brown
And not much ever seems to happen in the Little Country Town
lived in by the descendants of the early settlers who settled here a century ago
Of the bigger World out there few of them wish to know.
At night the recent happenings discussed in the local pub
News of the local cricketers or the local football club
Where the personal lives of those they know to them never taboo
What is happenning in the town of late who is having sex with who?
The visual or the literary arts never discussed at all
It has to be a local scandal that or bowls cricket or football
In little country towns one might say that creative types are rare
They are looked on with suspicion the culturally aware.
The creek down to a trickle and bone dry every drain
And in the local church on sunday the Reverend prays for rain
In the Main Street all is so quiet and few cars pass up and down
And life goes on as usual in the Little Country Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Church
The Church is Church my brother, a place to meet with one another,
A place to meet with our Lord, where grace and mercy are implored,
That place for worship and praise, lifted up to The Ancient of Days,
Men gathering, to bring glory to, The One Who created me and you.
Church is a body of those, who know, The Lord and desire to grow,
In the knowledge of Christ our Lord, as Christ's Body in one accord,
A place to encourage others in Christ, while living in this present life,
Support, that we can only receive, from men in life who also believe.
Church is more than a gathering, of men together to praise and sing,
As it's a place to seek The Lord, who, by love makes us one accord,
As believers are in the presence of, Jesus Christ, Who reigns above,
As Christ builds us together in unity, through the power from Calvary.
The local Church is the very heart, of The Savior's mission, to impart,
The very Truth of God's Salvation, in reaching each and every nation,
The Lord scattered His early Church, for His mission of greater worth,
So that as His Church, we could herald, God's Truth into all the world.
Today's Mission, is still the same, when Believers gather in His Name,
To focus upon our Lord God first, while The Savior builds His Church,
As The Lord grants direction to, His Living Stones, that's me and you,
To finish God's purpose, through us, all, for the glory of Christ Jesus.
(Copyright ©11/2012)
Sunday-Sweet-Sunday
Bucholic 'tis this season...
Down the lane the church bells ring-
Springs in the air-and salvation 'tis everywhere...
As a choir of sweet song birds sing;
Pastoral influence dominates me now...
Ever aware in my believing mind...
I hold church twenty-four-seven-
Celebrating with my Savior most kind;
For He has given us so very much...
Why just look at the green tree and baby wren...
Move your eyes over to the babbling brook...
And smell the fragrant blooms in the glen;
He has given us so much to believe in...
Even in a world oft' painted in sorrow and pain...
He gives us blue skies when over-run by grey ones...
And sunshine following a tempest of rain;
For He is a most loving power...
So willing to love and forgive-
I will celebrate-Sunday-Sweet-Sunday-
For as long as upon this earth i live;
poem by Theodora Onken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!