A Mahomedan Ship Fireman
UP from the oven pit,
The hell where poor men toil,
At the sunset hour he comes
Clean-clothed, washed from soil.
On the fo'c's'le head he kneels,
His face to the hallowed West.
He prays, and bows and prays.
Does he pray for death and rest?
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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Related quotes
On Those Days One Prays
When one prays,
A seeking from the outside...
Begins within!
To identify miracles,
One must sit in a quietness...
That has come to visit upon request.
When one prays...
The mind should be at rest.
When one prays,
A thankfulness should be first expressed.
With an appreciation for those blessings,
One sometimes ignores but gets!
When one prays.
When one prays,
A seeking from the outside...
Begins within!
To identify miracles,
One must sit in a quietness...
That has come to visit upon request.
When one prays...
The mind should be at rest.
With a confession professed,
As a thankfulness one expresses.
On those days one prays.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Heretic Prays
the heretic kneels
by the old willow tree
alone in the darkness
with life....
and prays....
with no need for salvation,
redemption, or change....
no thought of self,
of need and want,
he just lets go...
and prays....
nameless, part of all....
formless, evolving forms.....
from soul to spirit....
becoming....
the scripture of small creatures,
the hymns of the wind.....
eternity unleashed in each moment.....
the heretic prays!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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When The `Army' Prays For Watty
When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star,
Hide the picture on the signboard over Doughty's Horse Bazaar;
When the last rose-tint is fading on the distant mulga scrub,
Then the Army prays for Watty at the entrance of his pub.
Now, I often sit at Watty's when the night is very near,
With a head that's full of jingles and the fumes of bottled beer,
For I always have a fancy that, if I am over there
When the Army prays for Watty, I'm included in the prayer.
Watty lounges in his arm-chair, in its old accustomed place,
With a fatherly expression on his round and passive face;
And his arms are clasped before him in a calm, contented way,
And he nods his head and dozes when he hears the Army pray.
And I wonder does he ponder on the distant years and dim,
Or his chances over yonder, when the Army prays for him?
Has he not a fear connected with the warm place down below,
Where, according to good Christians, all the publicans should go?
But his features give no token of a feeling in his breast,
Save of peace that is unbroken and a conscience well at rest;
And we guzzle as we guzzled long before the Army came,
And the loafers wait for `shouters' and -- they get there just the same.
It would take a lot of praying -- lots of thumping on the drum --
To prepare our sinful, straying, erring souls for Kingdom Come;
But I love my fellow-sinners, and I hope, upon the whole,
That the Army gets a hearing when it prays for Watty's soul.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Somebody Prays
Somebody is happy
Somebody is fun
Somebody enjoys life
Then the devil puts them on the run.
Somebody has a problem
Somebody gets involved
Somebody reaches grace
Somebody prays a prayer
And the problem is dissolved.
Thanks to somebody who prays
That maybe doesn't even know me.
But prays a prayer daily
For all whom they do not see.
Thanks for your encouragement
Thank you
For some days life gets odd.
Thanks for caring about me
Thanks for knowing God.
poem by Cecelia Weir
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Mother Teresas Prays!
A CHILD is borne with aids,
her only hope, mother teresas
beatiful tears.
A WOMEN crying for help, starts
to cut her wrist, still mother teresa
prays.
A MAN sells him self for drugs, still
mother teresa prays.
A world with to many guns,, still
mother teresa prays....
poem by David Gerardino
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The Warrior's Fear
The warrior waits, with fear.
Fear of never returning
Fear of losing all he has.
Fear for his family, without him.
Fear of letting them down.
Fear of letting his captain down.
Fear of letting his friends down.
The warrior kneels to the ground.
He prays, prays for a long time.
The warrior stands up.
He feels no longer fear, but security.
The warrior charges into battle,
Determined.
Ready.
No longer fearful.
Never to return.
~mother~
To love and protect from all things bad,
To project her love into your heart,
Her life is yours just like her heart,
She prays your good,
She prays your smart,
She prays you'll never break her heart,
Of all the things you ever do...
remember a mothers love...for me and for you.
poem by Justagirl Mackay
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The friar who prays in god's name prays for two.
The Stolen God--Lazarus To Dives
We do not clamour for vengeance,
We do not whine for fear;
We have cried in the outer darkness
Where was no man to hear.
We cried to man and he heard not;
Yet we thought God heard us pray;
But our God, who loved and was sorry -
Our God is taken away.
Ours were the stream and the pasture,
Forest and fen were ours;
Ours were the wild wood-creatures,
The wild sweet berries and flowers.
You have taken our heirlooms from us,
And hardly you let us save
Enough of our woods for a cradle,
Enough of our earth for a grave.
You took the wood and the cornland,
Where still we tilled and felled;
You took the mine and quarry,
And all you took you held.
The limbs of our weanling children
You crushed in your mills of power;
And you made our bearing women toil
To the very bearing hour.
You have taken our clean quick longings,
Our joy in lover and wife,
Our hope of the sunset quiet
At the evening end of life;
You have taken the land that bore us,
Its soil and stone and sod;
You have taken our faith in each other -
And now you have taken our God.
When our God came down from Heaven
He came among men, a Man,
Eating and drinking and working
As common people can;
And the common people received Him
While the rich men turned away.
But what have we to do with a God
To whom the rich men pray?
He hangs, a dead God, on your altars,
Who lived a Man among men,
You have taken away our Lord
And we cannot find Him again.
You have not left us a handful
Of even the earth He trod . . .
You have made Him a rich man's idol
Who came as a poor man's God.
He promised the poor His heaven,
He loved and lived with the poor;
He said that the rich man's shadow
Should never darken His door:
But bishops and priests lie softly,
Drink full and are fully fed
In the Name of the Lord, who had not
Where to lay His head.
This is the God you have stolen,
As you steal all else--in His name.
You have taken the ease and the honour,
Left us the toil and the shame.
You have chosen the seat of Dives,
We lie where Lazarus lay;
But, by God, we will not yield you our God,
You shall not take Him away.
All else we had you have taken;
All else, but not this, not this.
The God of Heaven is ours, is ours,
And the poor are His, are His.
Is He ours? Is He yours? Give answer!
For both He cannot be.
And if He is ours--O you rich men,
Then whose, in God's name, are ye?
poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Noon Song
There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,
For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;
But who will give praise to the fulness of light,
And sing us a song of the glory of noon?
Oh, the high noon, the clear noon,
The noon with golden crest;
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
With his face to the way of the west!
How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength;
How slowly he crept as the morning wore by;
Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length
To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky.
Oh, the long toil, the slow toil,
The toil that may not rest,
Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown,
To the wonderful way of the west!
Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill,
The wings of the wind in the forest are furled,
The river runs softly, the birds are all still,
The workers are resting all over the world.
Oh, the good hour, the kind hour,
The hour that calms the breast!
Little inn half-way on the road of the day,
Where it follows the turn to the west!
There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade,
The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune,
The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid,
To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon.
Oh, the deep noon, the full noon,
Of all the day the best!
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
To his home by the way of the west.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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The Giver
the burnt fringe of the cloth
that covers his face;
a lion roars in the dark,
the child kneels and prays.
he laid stone upon stone
till it touched the sky;
the history of a man
who lived but to die!
when all becomes nothing,
nothing left behind;
but the gift of the giver,
and a satisfied mind.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Today... 'Lilly of the valleys
My lover and Lilly of the valleys
kneels in the garden and alone He prays.
'If it's possible take this cup from me.
Yet not My will but Your will it shall be.'
Then into the valley of death He went
and to depths of Hell began His descent
and there He lay behind deaths dark door
waiting to rise and to blossom once more.
Then victoriously through deaths domain
He blossomed and He bloomed and rose again.
Alive once more, astounding all around.
Resurrected in new life from the ground.
This lovely Lilly continues to bloom
scattering away all darkness and gloom.
Risen with the power and might to save
delivering his people from the grave.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)
God’s Expectations
Does God ask you to blindly pray?
Does God want you to only toil?
Does God tell that you act senseless?
God expects you to be quite wise!
The one who only prays is wrong;
The one who only works, insane;
The one, who thinks he’s clever, isn’t;
The one who follows Christ-soul-wise!
So, work with diligence on earth;
Be sensible in things you do;
Pray fervently whenev’r you can,
And listen to what conscience says!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 3-30-2006
poem by John Celes
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Predator
You gotta know that she is out there
When you're leaving for the night
She'll make you think that
she is playing fair
That's the real start of the fight
So when you're feeling kinda lonely
That's when you see her come your way
You think that you're the one and only
But there is only hell to pay
Just before the darkness
She's ready to betray
She prays on every weakness
You and me are meant to pay
Just before the darkness
She does it every day
A drink before the war
This is the way she plays the game
So if you can just turn around here
Before she traps you in her maze
Time has come to hide away your fear
Cause you've seen her real face
So when you're feeling kinda lonely
That's when you see her come your way
You think that you're the one and only
But there is only hell to pay
Just before the darkness
She's ready to betray
She prays on every weakness
You and me are meant to pay
Just before the darkness
She does it every day
A drink before the war
This is the way she plays the game
song performed by by E-type
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Pretty Girl in the Army
“Now I often sit at Watty’s, when the night is very near
With a head that’s full of jingles – and the fumes of bottled beer;
For I always have a fancy that, if I am over there
When the Army prays for Watty, I’m included in the prayer.
“It would take a lot of praying, lots of thumping on the drum,
To prepare our sinful, straying, erring souls for Kingdom Come,
But I love my fellow-sinners! And I hope upon the whole,
That the Army gets a hearing when it prays for Watty’s soul.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For An Annunciation, Early German
The lilies stand before her like a screen
Through which, upon this warm and solemn day,
God surely hears. For there she kneels to pray
Who wafts our prayers to God—Mary the Queen
She was Faith's Present, parting what had been
From what began with her, and is for aye.
On either hand, God's twofold system lay:
With meek bowed face a Virgin prayed between.
So prays she, and the Dove flies in to her,
And she has turned. At the low porch is one
Who looks as though deep awe made him to smile.
Heavy with heat, the plants yield shadow there;
The loud flies cross each other in the sun;
And the aisled pillars meet the poplar-aisle.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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A cry from an indian wife
My forest brave, my Red-skin love, farewell;
We may not meet to-morrow; who can tell
What mighty ills befall our little band,
Or what you'll suffer from the white man's hand?
Here is your knife! I thought 'twas sheathed for aye.
No roaming bison calls for it to-day;
No hide of prairie cattle will it maim;
The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game:
'Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host.
Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost.
Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack,
Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling pack
Of white-faced warriors, marching West to quell
Our fallen tribe that rises to rebel.
They all are young and beautiful and good;
Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood.
Curse to the fate that brought them from the East
To be our chiefs--to make our nation least
That breathes the air of this vast continent.
Still their new rule and council is well meant.
They but forget we Indians owned the land
From ocean unto ocean; that they stand
Upon a soil that centuries agone
Was our sole kingdom and our right alone.
They never think how they would feel to-day,
If some great nation came from far away,
Wresting their country from their hapless braves,
Giving what they gave us--but wars and graves.
Then go and strike for liberty and life,
And bring back honour to your Indian wife.
Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me?
Who pities my poor love and agony?
What white-robed priest prays for your safety here,
As prayer is said for every volunteer
That swells the ranks that Canada sends out?
Who prays for vict'ry for the Indian scout?
Who prays for our poor nation lying low?
None--therefore take your tomahawk and go.
My heart may break and burn into its core,
But I am strong to bid you go to war.
Yet stay, my heart is not the only one
That grieves the loss of husband and of son;
Think of the mothers o'er the inland seas;
Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees;
One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced child
That marches on toward the North-West wild.
The other prays to shield her love from harm,
To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm.
Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think,
Your tomahawk his life's best blood will drink.
She never thinks of my wild aching breast,
Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crest
Endangered by a thousand rifle balls,
My heart the target if my warrior falls.
O! coward self I hesitate no more;
Go forth, and win the glories of the war.
Go forth, nor bend to greed of white men's hands,
By right, by birth we Indians own these lands,
Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low...
Perhaps the white man's God has willed it so
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Sonnet- Be Tolerant
The God-believer stops and thinks of God;
He folds his hands, repeating his God's name;
He prays when he's reminded of his Lord,
And for his sins, he bows his head in shame.
Let any man believe in any God;
The God-Believer's better than atheists,
And let him build anything for his Lord;
All men must be better than earthly beasts.
Let man worship in steeple, tower, dome;
And let him call it Church, Temple or Mosque;
And let man call God Allah, Jesus, Om!
All men are sinners, pardon, he must ask.
If man loves God, his neighbors, man must love;
By forgiving, the rest he gets above.
1-4-2002
poem by John Celes
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Who prays?
Who prays to God-
You or your soul?
If it is soul, why does it pray-
For liberation or amalgamation?
Why must it to as any way
It has to when the body dies?
Why must you pray
And wither away
If you could be gay
With no need to pray?
19.06.2005
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Van Diemens Land
Hold me now, hold me now
Till this hour has gone around
And Im gone on the rising tide
For to face van diemens land
Its a bitter pill I swallow here
To be rent from one so dear
We fought for justice not for gain
But the magistrate sent me away
Now kings will rule and the poor will toil
And tear their hands as they tear the soil
But a day will come in the dawning age
When an honest man sees an honest wage
Hold me now, hold me now
Till this hour has gone around
And Im gone on the rising tide
For to face van diemens land
Still the gunman rules and the widows pay
A scarlet coat and a black beret
They thought that blood and sacrifice
Could out of death bring forth a life
Hold me now, hold me now
Till this hour has gone around
And Im gone on the rising tide
For to face van diemens land
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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