Epigram - On Players And Ballad-Singers
They're like the Priest and Clerk at Belial's altar;
One makes the Sermon; t'other tunes the Psalter.
poem by Francis Quarles
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Related quotes
Passion
The keys to notes play tunes of loss,
Tunes of longing, tunes of blues.
'Til metal enshrouding the air does trump with
Tunes of longing, tunes of blues.
Wood and string provide a base for
Tunes of longing, tunes of blues.
Encased in brass belong the bones of
Tunes of longing, tunes of blues.
Emblems and traps do kick and swear by
Tunes of longing, tunes of blues.
Until laughter disturbs this sweet eden,
My tortured soul lies bare.
I leave my emotions encapsulated
In sonic vibrations of air.
The tunes of longing and tunes of blues
Are played until the eve
When players no longer respect their tears
And thus, themselves, deceive.
poem by Liam O'Brien
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Life of a Roman Catholic Priest
A priest is nearest Christ;
A priest is Christ at times;
A priest is almost Christ;
A priest is most divine.
A priest is God’s shepherd;
A priest must tend to flock;
A priest must be like ‘rock’;
A priest should ne’er defrock.
A priest communes with God;
A priest draws hope from Lord;
A priest shows love of Christ;
A priest carries His Cross!
A priest is tempted too;
A priest has falls in life;
A priest falters also;
A priest has strength from Christ.
A priestly job is tough;
A priest’s life can turn rough;
A priest has strife enough,
But has to smile and laugh!
A priest helps harvest souls;
A priest has many roles;
A priest has but one goal –
To drink from Christ’s own bowl!
Pray that more priests should come;
May priests curb their freedom;
May priest usher Kingdom;
A life for Christ’s welcome.
Fondly dedicated to Rev. Fr. Xavier Claudius,
Beloved Parish priest, ‘Holy Family Church, Perundurai
Copyright by Dr John Celes 25-7-2010
poem by John Celes
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Give the priest drink, for the clerk is thirsty.
The Lark ON the Clerk
Blushingly blotches the mark
over the spot.
Itchingly wrestles the clerk,
scratching a lot.
What a lark
is it not
in the dark
in his cot?
But the mark
on the clerk
all remark
comforts not...
Cheerfully carols the lark
Over the cot.
Merrily whistles the clerk
scratching a blot.
But the lark
And the clerk
I remark,
Comfort me not!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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His Prayer To Ben Jonson
When I a verse shall make,
Know I have pray'd thee,
For old religion's sake,
Saint Ben to aid me.
Make the way smooth for me,
When I, thy Herrick,
Honouring thee, on my knee
Offer my lyric.
Candles I'll give to thee,
And a new altar,
And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be
Writ in my psalter.
poem by Robert Herrick
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The best sermon is preached by the minister who has a sermon to preach and not by the man who has to preach a sermon.
quote by William Feather
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Dog of Few Words
A clerk said, 'Next in line - this way.'
A dog spoke up, 'I guess I am.'
'What can we do for you today? '
'I want to send a telegram.'
The clerk handed the dog a note.
'You'll have to write it out somehow.'
The dog took pen in teeth and wrote,
'Bow wow wow, bow wow wow, bow wow.'
The clerk read what the dog had penned.
'One to ten words have the same fees.'
'There's eight words now, so you can send'
'Another 'bow wow' if you please.'
'No, ' the dog said, 'Just between us, '
'One more would sound ridiculous.'
It is just that the priest should live by the altar.
I do very few standards. Hardly any. Other people's tunes that I do are usually obscure tunes, for the most part, although I do a couple of Duke Ellington tunes that are well known.
quote by Mose Allison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Good Sermon
A good sermon should be like
A miniskirt:
Short enough to arouse interest
But long enough to cover the essentials.
Okay, seal my lips
Since silence is the only statement
That has zero misquote
Please this is not blasphemy
Forgive I if it is
Am I lost?
This's a message to
Him or her who hold
A position to address
Hear me say
A GIANT SERMON
Doesn't raise more converts
Neither does it make you a saint
Stick to this:
A GOOD SERMON!
poem by Buyunde Acura Sylivester
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Their kitchen is their shrine, the cook their priest, the table their altar, and their belly their god.
quote by Charles Buck
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reality On Sunday Mass
the sunday sermon of
the priest on tv sometimes
becomes noise
to me but in reverence of
the church
i do not switch if off i
do not change the
channel
like the life we live
we tolerate
the religion of the angry
self-righteous and
always soliciting
church
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Words
You treat my words
As if they were Sacred Text
Kneeling in Reverence
At my un-holy adjectives
In prayer at my altar
While candle flicker
Shadow flashes your face
Waiting for my sermon
Chapter and verse
Your prayers answered
With an: Amen!
poem by Theodora Onken
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If I had only one sermon to preach it would be a sermon against pride.
quote by Gilbert K. Chesterton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who is my God?
At a new moon in the jungle
Was brought to an altar
A roaring goat, fully black,
By an awesome peasant
To the fearsome Kali,
Made of granite, red in cloak,
Under arbour of a peepul,
Who before stood
At dawn of death, the poor goat
Like a bull in a fight,
Arresting the attention
Of everyone, unknown of his fate.
The beast was put to rites,
Smeared with sandal paste
And fully drenched in water
Till he shivered a jerk,
Which was taken as token of nod
By grace of Goddess for her feast.
The peasant was pleased;
The priest was pleased;
So were all, as though they’re blest.
One held his hind-legs,
Stretching them well behind,
The other bending up his front one,
The third locking his head
Hard onto the altar
For the priest to accomplish.
The act was done at a stroke
By the learned priest, merciless,
For the Goddess, all merciful.
Many-wards squirted the blood
Like a carpet, red,
Before the Goddess, her tongue dripping.
All felt that they had met
The thirst of Ma, full
As did a mother her child, ere asking.
The agony that was undergone,
Murder they committed,
And pathos that prevailed, who noticed?
The beheaded beast went straight,
To the feet of the Goddess,
“Ma, am I not your child?
If not, who is my Mother? ”
Her lids dripped,
She cursed for having been chiseled
25.07.97
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Fatalism
For the future
we shall see.
Can Man ever
Destiny
twist, curve, alter?
Can Man, somersaulter,
bend ends, means, free
options fresh, from halter
‘scape – no bended knee
before Time’s altar?
Can Man, clown, palter,
rewrite his history, -
Nature’s prime defaulter –
embrace transparency
as gospel psalter?
Can Man, distorter,
learn, turn, zen key
beyond brick, mortar?
Serenity,
not self-slaughter?
Why self-torture?
What will be,
actor, watcher,
you or me, -
Fate won’t falter.
Friend why wonder
fatally?
While men ponder
history,
spirits wander…
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Instant Tunes
Instant tunes only just been made
Instant songs never to be played
Instant tunes hanging out to dry
Let me try to introduce you to
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Ever and ever will they give us pleasure
Their instant, still instant
Like mother used to make it -- oh!
Instant tunes give instant cash
Make me want to start a backlash
Let me have the recipe
And make me some lovely, lovely
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Ever and ever will they give us pleasure
Their instant, still instant
Like mother used to make it -- oh!
Ever and ever will they give us pleasure
Their instant, still instant
Like mother used to make it -- oh!
Instant tunes give instant cash
Make me want to start a backlash
Let me have the recipe
And make me some lovely, lovely
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf IX. -- Thangbrand The Priest
Short of stature, large of limb,
Burly face and russet beard,
All the women stared at him,
When in Iceland he appeared.
'Look!' they said,
With nodding head,
'There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.'
All the prayers he knew by rote,
He could preach like Chrysostome,
From the Fathers he could quote,
He had even been at Rome,
A learned clerk,
A man of mark,
Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
He was quarrelsome and loud,
And impatient of control,
Boisterous in the market crowd,
Boisterous at the wassail-bowl,
Everywhere
Would drink and swear,
Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest
In his house this malcontent
Could the King no longer bear,
So to Iceland he was sent
To convert the heathen there,
And away
One summer day
Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
There in Iceland, o'er their books
Pored the people day and night,
But he did not like their looks,
Nor the songs they used to write.
'All this rhyme
Is waste of time!'
Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
To the alehouse, where he sat
Came the Scalds and Saga-men;
Is it to be wondered at,
That they quarrelled now and then,
When o'er his beer
Began to leer
Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest?
All the folk in Altafiord
Boasted of their island grand;
Saying in a single word,
'Iceland is the finest land
That the sun
Doth shine upon!'
Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
And he answered: 'What's the use
Of this bragging up and down,
When three women and one goose
Make a market in your town!'
Every Scald
Satires drawled
On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
Something worse they did than that;
And what vexed him most of all
Was a figure in shovel hat,
Drawn in charcoal on the wall;
With words that go
Sprawling below,
'This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.'
Hardly knowing what he did,
Then he smote them might and main,
Thorvald Veile and Veterlid
Lay there in the alehouse slain.
'To-day we are gold,
To-morrow mould!'
Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
Much in fear of axe and rope,
Back to Norway sailed he then.
'O King Olaf! little hope
Is there of these Iceland men!'
Meekly said,
With bending head,
Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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