The Crucifixion [The Light of The World]
They sunk a post into the ground
Where their leaders bade them stop;
It was a man’s height, and they spiked
A crosspiece to the top.
They bound it well with thongs of hide,
To make it firm and good;
Then roughly, with His back to this,
Their enemy they stood.
They held His hands upon the piece,
And they spiked them to the wood.
They mocked Him then—the while He rocked
In agony His head—
With things that He had never done,
And He had never said—
With that which He had never been—
And in His face they spat.
They placed a plank beside the post,
And they spiked His feet to that.
They pelted Him, but not with stones,
Lest He should die too soon;
They stayed to mock His agony
All through the blazing noon.
They did not pelt with stones, lest they
Might kill Him unaware,
But with foul things that lay about
The filthy hovels there.
And this was how they murdered Him
They killed Him in his youth
Because He had been good to men,
Because He told the truth,
Because they did not understand
The things He felt and knew:
He only said the world-old words,
“They know not what they do.”
The flaunting harlots taunted Him;
He only bowed His head,
And prayed for public women then,
While “Save Thyself!” they said.
They went with soldiers to the camp,
And the rest went by-and-bye,
When they were weary of the sport—
And they left Him there to die.
He lingered yet, for He was strong,
But He shut His blighted eyes,
And shuddered oft, for round Him swarmed
The loathsome desert flies.
His throat was parched, His temples throbbed,
And when He drooped, the pain
That shot from all His wounds tenfold
Would draw Him up again.
Two thieves were nailed beside Him there—
They raved, their wounds they tore,
And though they both were stronger men,
They seemed to suffer more;
And while with agony great beads
Of sweat stood on His brow,
He’d comfort them in words like these:
“’Twill soon be ended now.”
His friends had all deserted Him—
They fled in deadly fear
(As friends desert a friend to-day,
Afraid of jibe and sneer):
The same poor human nature now,
As it has ever been—
Small credit to be crucified
Beside a Nazarene.
But when the people in the town
And the drunken soldiers slept,
From some mean huts that stood hard by
Three wretched women crept;
Like thieves, across the stony ground,
They came with stealthy tread,
And they had water in a gourd—
But they found that He was dead.
They brought some still more wretched men,
And O their hearts were good:
In terror, and with pains, they wrenched
The strong spikes from the wood;
They washed His body hurriedly,
For they had lives to save,
And they bore it off and hid it well,
Where none might find his grave.
His name is known where’er the foot
Of Christian man has trod.
They worship in cathedrals now,
They call Him Son of God.
They ask for aid in His dear name
When they suffer care and pain,
And if He came on earth to-day,
They’d murder Him again.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Agony
Ever wonder how He felt?
Praying in the garden
His students asleep
Could not watch for an hour
He knew He had to die
Even if it's just for me
He would be scourged
He would sweat blood
Even if it's just for me
Agony!
There He was, fixed
Nails in hands and feet
For a moment
Abandoned by God
Agony!
They pierced Him
Blood and water gushed
Mom at His feet
Brothers vanquished
Head bowed
Breathed His last
How He felt?
Think you have it hard?
Think about Him
Agony!
He was wrapped
Buried and left
Thought it was the end?
Not so fast!
Three days later
He got up
Just like that
Now He reigns victorious
Today knees bow
Eyes close
Agony?
poem by Buxton Shippy
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The Last Post.
The last post sounds and echoes round.
The neat and well kept burial ground.
Head stones in rows beneath the sky
to mark where our dead heroes lie.
Standing as if still on parade.
Each headstone looking newly made.
It is one way we show respect.
No more no less than I expect
Head stones don’t only signify
that battle weary soldiers die
They also serve who wait for men
who will not see their home again.
The last post makes us realise
That war destroys their families.
Each time I hear the last post sound
I’m filled with sadness so profound.
Tears spring unbidden from my eyes,
they always take me by surprise.
I’m not ashamed to let them flow
Because I’m old enough to know.
That real men aren’t afraid to cry
Despite the ancient common lie.
That men don’t let emotions show
and should not let their tear drops flow.
When I hear the last post sound
I can recall the battle ground.
Where so many comrades still lie
in foreign fields beneath the sky.
The last post serves to honour all
brave soldiers who sadly fall.
Not only friends but enemies.
Death selects quite randomly.
Young widows weep and mothers cry.
They have the right and so do I.
Tuesday,31 August 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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After a Year
YES, you have guessed it. Do not blame me, dear.
Indeed, I did not dream, 0 tender eyes,
When first we met, that in a little year
My words would dim you with pain's dumb surprise.
Do not reproach me, for I suffer too
An agony of shame and self-contempt;
And know that I shall miss, far more than you,
The lost illusions of this dream we've dreamt.
Why did you ever learn to love me, child?
If you had let me only be your friend
Instead of weeping, had you only smiled
Coldly, I might have worshipped to the end.
Worthless and aimless, what I was you knew,
By all the wretched past to you confessed;
The one good in me was my love of you,
And that has proved as fickle as the rest.
Ah ! dear, the worst wrong in this world of shame,
The hardest question to explain, is why
Women like you, who barely know sin's name,
Can be so wounded by such men as I.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To The Christian Reader
Reader, I am a fool;
And have adventured
To play the fool this once for Christ,
The more his fame to spread.
If this my foolishness
Help thee to be more wise,
I have attained what I seek,
And what I onely prize.
Thou wonderest perhaps,
That I in Print appear,
Who to the Pulpit dwell so nigh,
Yet come so seldome there.
The God of Heaven knows
What grief to me it is,
To be with-held from Serving Christ:
No sorrow like to this.
This is the sorest pain
That I have felt of feel:
Yet have I stood some shocks that might
Make stronger Men to reel.
I find more true delight
In serving of my Lord,
Tan all the good things upon Earth,
Without it, can afford.
And could my strength endure,
That work I count so dear;
Not all the Riches of Peru
Should hire me to forbear;
But I'm a Prisoner,
Under a heavy Chain:
Almighty God's afflicting hand,
Doth me perforce restrain.
Yet some (I know) do judge,
Mine inability,
To come abroad and do Christ's Work,
To be Melancholy;
And that I'm not so weak,
As I my self conceit,
But who, in other things have found
Me so conceited yet?
Or who of all my friends,
That have my tryals seen,
Can tell the time in seven years,
When I have dumpish been?
Some think my voice is strong,
Most times when I do Preach:
But ten days after what I feel
And suffer, few can reach.
My prisoned thoughts break forth,
When open'd is the door,
With greater force and violence,
And strain my voice the more.
But vainly do they tell,
That I am growing stronger,
Who hear me speak in half an hour,
Till I can speak no longer.
Some for, because they see not
My chearfulness to fail,
Nor that I am disconsolate,
Do think I nothing ail.
If they had born my griefs,
Their courage might have fail'd them,
And all the Town (perhaps) have known
(Once and again) what ail'd them.
But why should I complain
That have so good a God,
That doth mine heart with comfort fill,
Ev'n whilst I feel his Rod?
In God I have been strong,
When wearied and worn out;
And joy'd in him, when twenty woes
Assail'd me round about.
Nor speak I this to boast;
But make Apology
For mine own self, and answer those
That fail in Charity.
I am (alas) as frail,
Impatient a Creature,
As most that tread upon the ground,
And have as bad a nature.
Let God be magnify'd,
Whose everlasting strength
Upholds me under sufferings
Of more than ten years length.
Through whose Almighty pow'r
Although I am surrounded
With sorrows more than can be told,
Yet am I not confounded.
For his dear sake have I
This service undertaken,
For I am bound to honour Him,
Who hath not me forsaken.
I am a Debtor too,
Unto the sons of Men;
Whom wanting other means, I would
Advantage with my Pen.
I would, But (ah!) my strength,
When tried, proves so small,
That to the ground without effect,
My wishes often fall.
Weak heads, and hands, and states,
Great things cannot produce:
And therefore I this little Piece
Have publish'd for thine use.
Although the thing be small,
Yet my good will therein,
Is nothing less then if it had
A larger Volumn been.
Accept it then in Love,
And read it for thy good:
There's nothing in't can do thee hurt,
If rightly understood.
The God of Heaven grant
These Lines so well to speed,
That thou the things of thine own peace,
Through them may'st better heed,
And may'st be stirred up
To stand upon thy guard,
That Death and Judgment may not come,
And find thee unprepar'd.
Oh get a part in Christ,
And make the Judge thy Friend:
So shalt thou be assured of
A happy, glorious end.
Thus prayes thy real Friend,
And Servant for Christ's Sake,
Who had he strength would not refuse,
More pains for thee to take.
poem by Michael Wigglesworth
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Today... 'The Good Shepherd
The ninety and nine safely in the fold lay
But this one sheep had foolishly gone astray
And as he lay bleating all lost and afraid
The Good Shepherd heard his cry and came to his aid
All through the wilderness the Good Shepherd went
To seek and save the lost sheep was His intent
Fierce ravening wolves pursued Him all the way
and the thorns tore His flesh throughout that day.
All through the night he toiled and did not sleep
For he was determined to rescue and save His lost sheep
Even though in Gethsemane drops of blood He sweat
He would not be dissuaded from the pathway set
And when He came to Golgotha's steep Hill
He did not hesitate but He carried on still
Onward and upward He went to be crucified
And there on the cross for His sheep He died
Stricken and smitten of God was He
And by His stripes I have been set free
The price of my sins by His blood he paid
And all my iniquity upon Him was laid
The Bulls of Bashan tore at His side
And the gates of death were opened wide
He entered Death and Hades to pay the price
Offering His body as the perfect sacrifice
Deep wounds in His hands and feet he bore
Head torn by the crown of thorns He wore
Alone He suffered Thirsty and bleeding
As there for His sheep He was interceding
Lesser shepherds and hireling would have fled
But He stood firm and for His sheep He bled
Enduring such suffering in order to save
This poor lost sheep from Hell and the grave
He lifted me out of the miry clay
as upon His shoulders I gently lay
Brought me into the security of the pen
all through the vale of death to heaven.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)
Bible in Poetry: Gospel of St. Luke (Chapter 24)
The Resurrection:
1 On week’s first day, early morning,
The women took prepared spices,
And went to see the tomb, by walk.
2 They found the stone across the tomb’s
Entrance just rolled away aside;
3 But when they entered, they didn’t find
The body of the Lord Jesus.
4 And while they wondered about this,
There came two men so suddenly,
In clothes that gleamed like lightning white,
And stood beside them, causing fright.
5 The frightened women bowed face down,
With faces looking to the ground,
The men asked them, 'Why do you look
For living souls among the dead?
6 He is not here; He has risen!
Remember how He had told you,
While He ‘as with you in Galilee:
7 'The Son of Man must handed be,
Over to hands of sinful men,
Who’ll crucify Him unto death,
But on third day, He’ll be raised.'
“8 They remembered then Jesus’ words.
9 When they had gone back from the tomb,
They told these things to Eleven,
And others too, who were their friends.
10 It was then Mary Magdalene,
Joanna, Mary, James’ mother,
And others told the apostles.
11 They didn’t believe the women’s talk,
Because their words seemed like nonsense.
12 But Peter got up, ran to tomb.
He bent over the tomb and saw
The strips of linen lie aside,
And went away, thinking within,
His mind as to what had happened.
On the Road to Emmaus:
13 That same day then, some two of them
Were going to Emmaus village,
Seven miles from Jerusalem.
14 They talked to each other of things
That happened on the previous days.
15 While talking and discussing things,
Jesus Himself came up and walked,
Along with them; but they knew not.
16 They could not recognize Him then.
17 He asked them both, 'What’s the matter
You’re discussing as you walk on? '
They stood aghast, faces downcast.
18 So, one of them, named Cleopas,
Asked Him, 'Are you a visitor just
To Jerusalem? Don’t you know
The things that have happened these days? '
19 'What things? ” the stranger asked of them.
'Of Nazarene Christ, ' they replied.
'He was a prophet, powerful
In word and deed, ’fore God, people.
20 The chief priests and our rulers then
Handed Him o’er on death sentence;
They crucified Him and He died;
21 But we’d hoped that He was the one
Who would redeem Israel at last.
And what’s more perplexing is that
On third day, since all this took place.
22 Some of our women amazed us.
They went to see the tomb early,
23 But did not find His body there.
They came and told they’d seen angels,
Who said He had risen alive.
24 Then some of us went to the tomb,
And found it just as women said,
But Him, they did not see at all.'
25 He said to them, 'How foolish you’re,
And slow of heart to believe all
That prophets have spoken earlier!
26 Didn‘t Christ have to suffer these things
And then enter His glorious Home? '
27 And starting with Moses, Prophets,
He explained to them what was said
In Scriptures all concerning Him.
28 As they approached the said village,
Jesus pretended to go on.
29 But they urged Him strongly to stay,
'For, it was nearly evening;
The day was almost over then.'
So Jesus went to stay with them.
30 When at the table with them all,
He took the bread, gave thanks, broke it
And gave it to them, one by one.
31 Their eyes were opened, all at once
And when they recognized Him then,
He disappeared from their sight fast.
32 They asked each other, 'Weren’t our hearts
Burning within us, while He talked
About the Scriptures on the road? ”
33 They returned to Jerusalem.
They found the Eleven there and those
With them, assembled together,
34 And saying, 'It is true! The Lord
Has risen, appeared to Simon.'
35 They told what had happened en way,
And how Jesus was recognized
By them when He had broken bread.
Jesus Appears to His Disciples
36 While they were talking still like this,
Then Jesus Himself stood ’mongst them
And said to them, 'Peace be with you.'
37 So startled and frightened were they!
They thought they saw a ghost that hour.
38 He asked them, 'Why are you troubled,
And why do doubts rise in your minds?
39 'O look at my hands and my feet! '
’Tis I myself! Just touch and see;
A ghost hasn’t flesh and bones like me.”
40 When He had said this, He then showed
His apostles, His hands and feet.
41 And while they still did not believe,
Because of joy and amazement,
He asked, 'Do you have food to eat? '
42 They gave a piece of broiled fish then;
He ate it all in their presence;
44 He said, 'This is what I told you
While I was still with you earlier:
All must be fulfilled that is writ
In Law of Moses about me,
And Prophets and Psalms in Scriptures.”
45 Then Christ opened their minds and
They could understand Scriptures.
46 He told them, 'This is what’s written:
‘Christ will suffer and rise from dead
On third day,47 When repentance and
Forgiveness of sins will be preached,
In His name to nations, starting
At Jerusalem.48 Witnesses
Are you of all these things you see.
49 I’m going to send what my Father
Has promised; Stay in the city
Till clothed with power from on high.'
The Ascension:
50 When He ‘ad led them near Bethany,
He lifted up His hands, blessed them.
51 While He was blessing them, He left
Them and was taken to Heaven.
52They worshiped Him and then returned
To Jerusalem with great joy.
53 And they stayed at temple for long time,
And praised the Living God, Most High.
(7-7-2007)
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Banu’s son has had no water for days
Banu’s son has had no water for days
His pulse is weak and his mother prays
No hope in sight of getting water or milk
Helpless, she lingers by his cradle in a daze
“Pray tell me, what shall I do now Ya Husain?
The baby’s eyes now roll back in pain”
“Oh Ya Ali, Ya Ali where can I go?
I cannot watch my baby suffer so
How do I find a way to make him live?
Ya Ali he needs water, which I cannot give”
“Last night I saw him open his eyes
But today he lays still, doesn’t move, doesn’t cry”
Then everyone said, “Lets call the Imam
For God’s sake somebody, go get the Imam
The baby is dying, go tell the Imam
His face is blue, his body calm”
“Taking Akber’s body to lay it to rest
The Imam’s on his way, with grief beset “
Face stained with the blood of His eighteen year old
The Imam entered, his head bowed
And everyone led Him to the baby’s crib
And showed Him the baby’s still fingers and toes
“He barely breathes Oh Noble Prince” they cried
“Its seems as though he has already died”
At the head of the crib, the Prince knelt down
In the baby’s ear He whispered, head bowed
Hearing the Prince’s voice, the baby smiled
Toward Husain he extended his arms and glowed
“It is indeed a miracle” Sakina cried
“Oh mother, my brother has opened his eyes”
The baby in His arms, the Prince left the camp
And death followed, eyeing them askance
To shelter her baby from the midday sun
The mother draped a sheet over the Imam’s arms
Holding Asgher close, Husain walked, head bowed
In the arms of the heavens, a snow white cloud
As He neared the lowly enemy, Husain stood silent in pause
Couldn’t ask for water, couldn’t utter the words
With embarrassment He paled, He bowed His head
He uncovered the baby, to the army He showed
Head bowed, he said, “I’ve brought my son to you
Seeking water Asgher now has come to you”
Then He kissed the baby’s parched lips and mouth
And whispered “My son I’ve said what I could
There are no words to describe your pain my son
So maybe you can show them your dry, parched tongue”
In response the baby licked his lips parched and dry
And Husain shuddered and looked up to the skies
And as Husain looked to the heavens so
The cursed Hurmula strung an arrow in his bow
And aimed the arrow at Asgher’s throat
Pulling taut the bow, let the arrow go
As the tiny neck the arrow gashed
Asgher lurched and clung to his dad
A six month old baby and an arrow’s force
Blood poured from the tiny, thirsty throat
Once more he lurched and then went still
His cap fell to the ground and he breathed his last
Tiny fists curled over his chest, body numb
A minute ago he was sucking his thumbs
And the desolate Father, watched His son
Saw the devastation the arrow had done
And watched the baby in the throes of death
The tiny hands groping at the injured neck
The lifeless eyes rolling back in the head
Blood gushing forth from the battered neck
Gently pulling out the arrow from the baby’s neck
Husain lifted His son toward the heaven and said
“My God please accept my last sacrifice
For your cause, in your path, my son is now dead”
“Little in age but magnanimous in deeds
Thus are the children of Allah’s creed”
poem by Mir Babar Ali Anees
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Good Shepherd
The ninety and nine safely in the fold lay
But this one sheep had foolishly gone astray
And as he lay bleating all lost and afraid
The Good Shepherd heard his cry and came to his aid.
All through the wilderness the Good Shepherd went
To seek and save the lost sheep was His intent
Fierce ravening wolves pursued Him all the way
and the thorns tore His flesh throughout that day.
All through the night he toiled and did not sleep
For he was determined to rescue and save His lost sheep
Even though in Gethsemane drops of blood He sweat
He would not be dissuaded from the pathway set.
Then when He came to Golgotha's steep Hill
He did not hesitate but He carried on still
Onward and upward He went to be crucified
And there on the cross for His sheep He died.
Stricken and smitten of God was He
And by His stripes I have been set free
The price of my sins by His blood he paid
And all my iniquity upon Him was laid.
The Bulls of Bashan tore at His side
And the gates of Hell were opened wide
He entered Death and Hades to pay the price
Offering His body as the perfect sacrifice.
Deep wounds in His hands and feet he bore
Head torn by the crown of thorns He wore
Alone He suffered Thirsty and bleeding
As there for His sheep He was interceding.
Lesser shepherds and hireling would have fled
But He stood firm and for His sheep He bled
Enduring such suffering in order to save
This poor lost sheep from Hell and the grave.
He lifted me out of the miry clay
and upon His shoulders I gently lay
all through the vale of death to heaven
Bringing me into the security of the pen.
Written after reading John 10: 11-15—11
Just let Go
I knew of torment once
so long ago, was that me back then
suffering in pain, I was forced to do things
I could never remember
I was forced to be someone
outside of my own
I don’t like to say
or remember back then
how it hurt me to even just breath
the agony you feel the pain unreal
how can a child bear witness
to this torment and pain
to be torn into two
like a rag doll of old
the memories are real
they made me a women of today
but to block out the terror
the screams and hands
that lay waste to my soul
its more than I can bare
its more than I can say
how to make you understand
the innocence of a child
taken from them without remorse
without regret and the child not knowing
she was too young to know
of the horrors drawn from her that day
not understanding she would live
she would breath only to live her life
like a zombie instead
but the torture of living
and breathing each day
was something she learned
alone in the dark never really knowing
all she had to do was reach out and touch
loved ones and friends
So where do you say
you know agony and pain
have you lived through a year
of torture and pain
Have you been held so tight
you can’t breathe you can’t move
you move to your left your crushed real tight
you move to your right your crushed tighter still
then a hand covers mouth
stopping you to scream or shout
then hear every day don’t tell or be dead
I’ve walked away from this memory of old
and I've learnt to be strong
and just let it go
poem by Kaila George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The poems can be
Poems can be..
How can poems be limited to certain length?
When certain things are to be conveyed with forceful strength
I agree with arguments for controlling its flow
But it may not be effective with events to grow
May be it is good with different perception
I am for little lengthy topics from inception
I may be wrong but old habits die very hard
I don’t shut the doors but always look forward
I love making all secrets known to friends
Sometimes my privacy may compromise and end
But it helps to come out of any setback or shock
The human sufferings have enough of such stocks
It may be possible to hold back some of the secrets
You can’t make it possible for others or let
It may form a priceless treasure in your mind
But certainly restrict you for others to guess or find
Human sentiments are hard to understand
It may make you cry in darkness without friends
How you address the agony and pain is not for others to see
As you may hide the face with hands and make heart very free
Such sentiments or deep love can be expressed with some reasons
Some explanation may go hard way with many persons
It is not writing of an episode that may require some logic
But spirit behind it to grasp or understand some basic
We have shrinked a lot and can’t go little any more
The human sentiments deserve to be heard therefore
If we limit the gravity or pain behind it
I am afraid that proper message may not be deemed fit
Heart can never remain empty
It has to enjoy or bleed with pity
The pulses are to be caught humanly
One must be strong enough to accept it bravely
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Burghers of Calais
It were after the Battle of Crecy-
The foe all lay dead on the ground-
And King Edward went out with his soldiers
To clean up the places around.
The first place they came to were Calais,
Where t' burghers all stood in a row,
And when Edward told them to surrender
They told Edward where he could go.
Said he, " I'll beleaguer this city,
I'll teach them to flout their new King -
Then he told all his lads to get camp-stools
And sit round the place in a ring.
Now the burghers knew nowt about Crecy-
They laughed when they saw Edward's plan-
And thinking their side were still winning,
They shrugged and said- " San fairy Ann."
But they found at the end of a fortnight
That things wasn't looking so nice,
With nowt going out but the pigeons,
And nowt coming in but the mice.
For the soldiers sat round on their camp-stools,
And never a foot did they stir,
But passed their time doing their knitting,
And crosswords, and things like that there.
The burghers began to get desperate
Wi' t' food supply sinking so low,
For they'd nowt left but dry bread and water,
Or what they called in French "pang" and "oh"
They stuck it all autumn and winter,
But when at last spring came around
They was bothered, bewitched and beleaguered,
And cods' heads was tenpence a pound.
So they hung a white flag on the ramparts
To show they was sick of this 'ere-
And the soldiers, who'd finished their knitting,
All stood up and gave them a cheer.
When King Edward heard they had surrendered
He said to them, in their own tongue,
"You've kept me here all football season,
And twelve of you's got to be hung."
Then up stood the Lord Mayor of Calais,
"I'll make one" he gallantly cried-
Then he called to his friends on the Council
To make up the rest of the side.
When the townspeople heard of the hanging
They rushed in a crowd through the gate-
They was all weeping tears of compassion,
And hoping they wasn't too late.
With ropes round their necks the twelve heroes
Stood proudly awaiting their doom,
Till the hangman at last crooked his finger
And coaxingly said to them-" Come.
At that moment good Queen Phillippa
Ran out of her bower and said-
Oh, do have some mercy, my husband;
Oh don't be so spiteful, dear Ted."
Then down on her knee-joints before them
She flopped, and in accents that rang,
Said, "Please, Edward, just to oblige me,
You can't let these poor burghers hang.
The King was so touched with her pleading,
He lifted his wife by the hand
And he gave her all twelve as a keepsake
And peace once again reigned in the land.
poem by Marriott Edgar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Day The Sun Stood Still
We were young and bound for glory
Itchin' for a fight like you
Bringin' hell and purgatory
To the boys who wore the blue
And I thought I'd seen it all
Till the day night wouldn't fall
Oh, how the sun did blaze
Wouldn't go down for days
I got shot and lost my rifle
When the first wave hit the rise
And the guns rolled out like thunder
And the black smoke burned my eyes
And I watched it all unfold
Just the way the Bible told
Joshua's endless day
Keepin' the night at bay
And the soldiers kept a comin'
Til the ground looked like a sea
Of blue and grey
And I watched it from a distance
Wonderin' if I would've fought or run away
The day the sun stood still
How they beat the bloody drums
And the seconds moved like hours
But the sunset never comes
And the cannons shake the ground
And the bullets test your will
Even shadows found no cover
On that Godforsaken hill
The day the sun stood still
And I watched them lean their shoulders
To the fearful hail of lead
And I prayed for night to save us
And I cried and bowed my head
Bt the sun just kept a-creepin'
'Cross a cold indifferent sky
Castin' a deadly glow
On all the men below
All the hours in a lifetime
Don't add up to one while minute in that sun
And the heroes and the cowards
Look the same when they have fallen by the gun
The day the sun stood still
And the north and south looked west
But the evening star was sleeping
And the daylight wouldn't rest
Out on the killing floor
The red sun on the the hill
Shinin' down on all the dead men
With a strange and eerie chill
The day the sun stood still
-a
song performed by by Travis Tritt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Before A Crucifix
Here, down between the dusty trees,
At this lank edge of haggard wood,
Women with labour-loosened knees,
With gaunt backs bowed by servitude,
Stop, shift their loads, and pray, and fare
Forth with souls easier for the prayer.
The suns have branded black, the rains
Striped grey this piteous God of theirs;
The face is full of prayers and pains,
To which they bring their pains and prayers;
Lean limbs that shew the labouring bones,
And ghastly mouth that gapes and groans.
God of this grievous people, wrought
After the likeness of their race,
By faces like thine own besought,
Thine own blind helpless eyeless face,
I too, that have nor tongue nor knee
For prayer, I have a word to thee.
It was for this then, that thy speech
Was blown about the world in flame
And men's souls shot up out of reach
Of fear or lust or thwarting shame -
That thy faith over souls should pass
As sea-winds burning the grey grass?
It was for this, that prayers like these
Should spend themselves about thy feet,
And with hard overlaboured knees
Kneeling, these slaves of men should beat
Bosoms too lean to suckle sons
And fruitless as their orisons?
It was for this, that men should make
Thy name a fetter on men's necks,
Poor men's made poorer for thy sake,
And women's withered out of sex?
It was for this, that slaves should be,
Thy word was passed to set men free?
The nineteenth wave of the ages rolls
Now deathward since thy death and birth.
Hast thou fed full men's starved-out souls?
Hast thou brought freedom upon earth?
Or are there less oppressions done
In this wild world under the sun?
Nay, if indeed thou be not dead,
Before thy terrene shrine be shaken,
Look down, turn usward, bow thine head;
O thou that wast of God forsaken,
Look on thine household here, and see
These that have not forsaken thee.
Thy faith is fire upon their lips,
Thy kingdom golden in their hands;
They scourge us with thy words for whips,
They brand us with thy words for brands;
The thirst that made thy dry throat shrink
To their moist mouths commends the drink.
The toothed thorns that bit thy brows
Lighten the weight of gold on theirs;
Thy nakedness enrobes thy spouse
With the soft sanguine stuff she wears
Whose old limbs use for ointment yet
Thine agony and bloody sweat.
The blinding buffets on thine head
On their crowned heads confirm the crown;
Thy scourging dyes their raiment red,
And with thy bands they fasten down
For burial in the blood-bought field
The nations by thy stripes unhealed.
With iron for thy linen bands
And unclean cloths for winding-sheet
They bind the people's nail-pierced hands,
They hide the people's nail-pierced feet;
And what man or what angel known
Shall roll back the sepulchral stone?
But these have not the rich man's grave
To sleep in when their pain is done.
These were not fit for God to save.
As naked hell-fire is the sun
In their eyes living, and when dead
These have not where to lay their head.
They have no tomb to dig, and hide;
Earth is not theirs, that they should sleep.
On all these tombless crucified
No lovers' eyes have time to weep.
So still, for all man's tears and creeds,
The sacred body hangs and bleeds.
Through the left hand a nail is driven,
Faith, and another through the right,
Forged in the fires of hell and heaven,
Fear that puts out the eye of light:
And the feet soiled and scarred and pale
Are pierced with falsehood for a nail.
And priests against the mouth divine
Push their sponge full of poison yet
And bitter blood for myrrh and wine,
And on the same reed is it set
Wherewith before they buffeted
The people's disanointed head.
O sacred head, O desecrate,
O labour-wounded feet and hands,
O blood poured forth in pledge to fate
Of nameless lives in divers lands,
O slain and spent and sacrificed
People, the grey-grown speechless Christ!
Is there a gospel in the red
Old witness of thy wide-mouthed wounds?
From thy blind stricken tongueless head
What desolate evangel sounds
A hopeless note of hope deferred?
What word, if there be any word?
O son of man, beneath man's feet
Cast down, O common face of man
Whereon all blows and buffets meet,
O royal, O republican
Face of the people bruised and dumb
And longing till thy kingdom come!
The soldiers and the high priests part
Thy vesture: all thy days are priced,
And all the nights that eat thine heart.
And that one seamless coat of Christ,
The freedom of the natural soul,
They cast their lots for to keep whole.
No fragment of it save the name
They leave thee for a crown of scorns
Wherewith to mock thy naked shame
And forehead bitten through with thorns
And, marked with sanguine sweat and tears,
The stripes of eighteen hundred years
And we seek yet if God or man
Can loosen thee as Lazarus,
Bid thee rise up republican
And save thyself and all of us;
But no disciple's tongue can say
When thou shalt take our sins away.
And mouldering now and hoar with moss
Between us and the sunlight swings
The phantom of a Christless cross
Shadowing the sheltered heads of kings
And making with its moving shade
The souls of harmless men afraid.
It creaks and rocks to left and right
Consumed of rottenness and rust,
Worm-eaten of the worms of night,
Dead as their spirits who put trust,
Round its base muttering as they sit,
In the time-cankered name of it.
Thou, in the day that breaks thy prison,
People, though these men take thy name,
And hail and hymn thee rearisen,
Who made songs erewhile of thy shame,
Give thou not ear; for these are they
Whose good day was thine evil day.
Set not thine hand unto their cross.
Give not thy soul up sacrificed.
Change not the gold of faith for dross
Of Christian creeds that spit on Christ.
Let not thy tree of freedom be
Regrafted from that rotting tree.
This dead God here against my face
Hath help for no man; who hath seen
The good works of it, or such grace
As thy grace in it, Nazarene,
As that from thy live lips which ran
For man's sake, O thou son of man?
The tree of faith ingraffed by priests
Puts its foul foliage out above thee,
And round it feed man-eating beasts
Because of whom we dare not love thee;
Though hearts reach back and memories ache,
We cannot praise thee for their sake.
O hidden face of man, whereover
The years have woven a viewless veil,
If thou wast verily man's lover,
What did thy love or blood avail?
Thy blood the priests make poison of,
And in gold shekels coin thy love.
So when our souls look back to thee
They sicken, seeing against thy side,
Too foul to speak of or to see,
The leprous likeness of a bride,
Whose kissing lips through his lips grown
Leave their God rotten to the bone.
When we would see thee man, and know
What heart thou hadst toward men indeed,
Lo, thy blood-blackened altars; lo,
The lips of priests that pray and feed
While their own hell's worm curls and licks
The poison of the crucifix.
Thou bad'st let children come to thee;
What children now but curses come?
What manhood in that God can be
Who sees their worship, and is dumb?
No soul that lived, loved, wrought, and died,
Is this their carrion crucified.
Nay, if their God and thou be one,
If thou and this thing be the same,
Thou shouldst not look upon the sun;
The sun grows haggard at thy name.
Come down, be done with, cease, give o'er;
Hide thyself, strive not, be no more.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Christ upon the Hill
Part I.
A couple old sat o'er the fire,
And they were bent and gray;
They burned the charcoal for their Lord,
Who lived long leagues away.
Deep in the wood the old pair dwelt,
Far from the paths of men,
And saw no face but their poor son's,
And a wanderer's now and then.
The son, alas! Had grown apace,
And left his wits behind;
He was as helpless as the air,
As empty as the wind.
With puffing lips and shambling feet,
And eyes a-staring wide,
He whistled ever as he went,
And little did beside.
He whistled high, he whistled low,
He whistled sharp and sweet;
He brought the redbreast to his hand,
And the brown hare to his feet.
Without a fear of beast or bird,
He wandered all the day;
But when the light began to fail
His courage passed away.
He feared the werewolf in the wood,
The dragon in the dell,
And home he fled as if pursued
By all the hosts of hell.
"Ah! we are old," the woman said,
"And soon shall we be gone,
And what will our poor Michael do
When he is left alone?
"We are forgotten of all men;
And he is dead, I fear,
That good old priest, who used to come
And shrive us thrice a year.
"We have no kin," the mother said,
"We have no friend," said she;
The father gazed upon the fire,
And not a word said he.
Again she spoke, "No friend or kin,
'Death, only Death,' is near;
And he will take us both away,
And leave our Michael here.
"And who shall give him bite or sup?
And who shall keep him neat?
Ah! what were Heaven if we must weep
Before God's mercy-seat!"
And when the woman ceased, the man
A little waited still,
And then he said, "We have one friend --
The Christ upon the Hill."
Part II.
The Christ upon the Hill --so gaunt
And lean and stark and drear;
It made the heart with pity start,
It smote the soul with fear.
High reared against a cliff it stood,
Just where the great roads met;
And many a knee had worn the stone
Wherein the Rood was set.
For deadly was the pass beyond,
And all men paused to pray
For courage, or to pour their thanks
For dangers passed away.
But not for fear of beast or fiend,
But boding deeper ill,
The charcoal-burner and his wife
Slow climbed the weary hill.
Before the Rood their simple son
Lay stretched upon the ground,
And crumbled black bread for the birds
That hopped and pecked around.
(For he had gone before with feet
As wild and light as air,
And borne the basket on his back
That held their frugal fare.)
And they were faint, and, ere they prayed,
They sat them down to eat;
And much they marvelled at their son,
Who never touched his meat,
But, now the birds were flown away,
Sat up, and only gazed
Upon the Christ upon the cross,
As one with wonder dazed.
Full long he sat and never moved;
But then he gave a cry,
And caught his mother by the wrist
And said, "I heard a sigh."
"It is an image made of wood,
It has no voice," she said;
"'Twas but the wind you heard, my son,"
But Michael shook his head,
And gazed again, so earnestly
His face grew almost wise;
And now he cried again, and said,
"Look, how he closed his eyes!"
"'Tis but the shadow of a bird
That passed across his face,"
The mother said; "see, even now
It hovers near the place."
And then the father said, "My son,
The image is of wood;
And do you think a man could live
Without a taste of food?"
"No food?" the silly youth replied,
And pointed to a wren,
Who with a crumb upon Christ's lip
Had just alighted then.
And now the old man held his peace,
And the woman ceased to strive,
For still he shook his silly head,
And said, "The man's alive."
"It is God's will," they said, and knelt,
And knew not what to say;
But when they rose they felt as though
All fear had passed away.
And they could smile when Michael left
His dinner on the stone;
He said, "The birds will feed the Christ
When they are quite alone."
Part III.
The couple sat before the fire,
More old, and sad, and poor,
For there was winter at the heart,
And winter at the door.
It shook the roof with shocks of wind;
It caked the pane with snow;
The candle flickered on the sill,
Like a soul that longed to go.
'Twas Michael's beacon, -- gone to feed
The Christ upon the Hill;
And midnight long had passed and gone,
And he was absent still.
And now and then they turned a log,
And now they dropped a word:
"'Twas all the wind," the mother said;
The father said, "The bird."
"I hoped that it was God himself,"
The mother muttered low;
"It must have been the fiend," he said,
"For to deceive him so."
And then the mother cried aloud,
"What matter it?" she said;
"Or wind, or bird, or fiend, or God,
For he is dead -- is dead!"
"Hark!" cried the man, and through the storm
A note came high and clear;
It was the whistle of their son,
That sound they longed to hear.
And then a cry for help, and out
Into the snow they ran;
And there was Michael. On his back
He bore a helpless man.
"He lives, he lives," he wildly cried;
"His wounds are dripping still;"
And surely, red from hand and side
There ran a tiny rill.
They brought Him in and laid Him down,
Upon the warm hearthstone;
It was the Christ, but not of wood,
But made of flesh and bone.
They washed His wounds, and at their touch
They turned to purple scars,
Like a young moon upon the breast,
On hands and feet like stars.
They brought to moisten His dry lips
They hoarded flask of wine;
They wrapped Him round with blankets warm,
And waited for a sign.
And soon without the help of hand
He rose upon His feet,
And like a friend beside the fire
He took the vacant seat.
He sat up in the chair then,
And straight began to shine,
Until His face and raiment poured
A glory most divine.
The thorns upon His forehead
Broke out in leaves of gold;
The blood-drops turned to berries,
Like rubies rich and bold.
The blankets that bewrapped Him
Flowed into folds of white,
Bestarred with gold and jewels
Which sparkled in the light.
The very chair He sat on
Became a crystal throne;
The oaken stool beneath His feet
Turned to a jasper stone.
He stretched an arm to Michael,
And touched him with His hand,
And he arose beside the throne
An angel, bright and grand.
And then His lips were opened,
And strong and sweet and clear,
Like water from a fountain,
His voice was good to hear.
"I am the King of Glory;
I am your brother too;
And even as you do to Me,
So do I unto you.
"You took Me in and clothed Me;
You washed My body pierced;
You gave me of your wine to drink
When I was sore athirst.
"And you have suffered also,
And you must suffer still;
I suffered upon Calvary;
I suffer on the Hill.
"But I am Prince of Sorrow,
And I am Lord of Care;
I come to bring you comfort,
And save you from despair.
"Your son, your only son, is safe
And beautiful to see;
And though you miss him for a while,
You know he is with Me.
"And I will give him peace and joy
As no man every knew --
A little grief, a little pain,
And I will come for you."
He rose, His arms around their son;
And through the open door
They only saw a whirl of snow,
And heard the tempest roar.
poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Good Girl
[verse 1]
You walk a narrow road
I know you face it on your own
But you've got the will inside
I can see it in your eyes
You're not about mini skirts
And silly reasons just to flirt
'Cause you've got heaven on your side
And that's how you live your life
[chorus]
Hang on, good girl, (you're not the only one)
Be strong, good girl, )when the pressure comes)
When they try to bring you down
You'll be glad you stood your ground
So just hang on
[verse 2]
You've seen a lot of things
You're the keeper of many dreams
You've got everything it takes
To stay strong, carry on
You're sick of childish games
You speak the truth and you say it straight
And when you dreams have been delayed
You've got the strength to wait
So keep on waiting
[chorus]
Hang on, good girl, (you're not the only one)
Be strong, good girl, )when the pressure comes)
When they try to bring you down
You'll be glad you stood your ground
So just hang on
[bridge]
You're not sugar and spice and everything nice
You've got character and you paid the price
You're not after self-perfection
You're living out your redemption
What sets you apart from everyone else
Is that you know your Saviour and you know Him well
What makes you different from all the rest
Is that you won't let it get to you
[chorus]
Hang on, good girl, (you're not the only one)
Be strong, good girl, )when the pressure comes)
When they try to bring you down
You'll be glad you stood your ground
So just hang on
song performed by by ZoeGirl
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Ballad, Shewing How An Old Woman Rode Double, And Who Rode Before Her
The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal,
And the Old Woman knew what he said,
And she grew pale at the Raven's tale,
And sicken'd and went to her bed.
Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,
The Old Woman of Berkeley said,
The monk my son, and my daughter the nun
Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.
The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,
Their way to Berkeley went,
And they have brought with pious thought
The holy sacrament.
The old Woman shriek'd as they entered her door,
'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear,
Now take the sacrament away
For mercy, my children dear!
Her lip it trembled with agony,
The sweat ran down her brow,
I have tortures in store for evermore,
Oh! spare me my children now!
Away they sent the sacrament,
The fit it left her weak,
She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes
And faintly struggled to speak.
All kind of sin I have rioted in
And the judgment now must be,
But I secured my childrens souls,
Oh! pray my children for me.
I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes,
The fiends have been my slaves,
I have nointed myself with infants fat,
And feasted on rifled graves.
And the fiend will fetch me now in fire
My witchcrafts to atone,
And I who have rifled the dead man's grave
Shall never have rest in my own.
Bless I intreat my winding sheet
My children I beg of you!
And with holy water sprinkle my shroud
And sprinkle my coffin too.
And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone
And fasten it strong I implore
With iron bars, and let it be chain'd
With three chains to the church floor.
And bless the chains and sprinkle them,
And let fifty priests stand round,
Who night and day the mass may say
Where I lie on the ground.
And let fifty choristers be there
The funeral dirge to sing,
Who day and night by the taper's light
Their aid to me may bring.
Let the church bells all both great and small
Be toll'd by night and day,
To drive from thence the fiends who come
To bear my corpse away.
And ever have the church door barr'd
After the even song,
And I beseech you children dear
Let the bars and bolts be strong.
And let this be three days and nights
My wretched corpse to save,
Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng
And then I may rest in my grave.
The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down
And her eyes grew deadly dim,
Short came her breath and the struggle of death
Did loosen every limb.
They blest the old woman's winding sheet
With rites and prayers as due,
With holy water they sprinkled her shroud
And they sprinkled her coffin too.
And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone
And with iron barr'd it down,
And in the church with three strong chains
They chain'd it to the ground.
And they blest the chains and sprinkled them,
And fifty priests stood round,
By night and day the mass to say
Where she lay on the ground.
And fifty choristers were there
To sing the funeral song,
And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand
Of all the sacred throng.
To see the priests and choristers
It was a goodly sight,
Each holding, as it were a staff,
A taper burning bright.
And the church bells all both great and small
Did toll so loud and long,
And they have barr'd the church door hard
After the even song.
And the first night the taper's light
Burnt steadily and clear.
But they without a hideous rout
Of angry fiends could hear;
A hideous roar at the church door
Like a long thunder peal,
And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung
Louder in fearful zeal.
Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well,
The tapers they burnt bright,
The monk her son, and her daughter the nun
They told their beads all night.
The cock he crew, away they flew
The fiends from the herald of day,
And undisturb'd the choristers sing
And the fifty priests they pray.
The second night the taper's light
Burnt dismally and blue,
And every one saw his neighbour's face
Like a dead man's face to view.
And yells and cries without arise
That the stoutest heart might shock,
And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring
Over a mountain rock.
The monk and nun they told their beads
As fast as they could tell,
And aye as louder grew the noise
The faster went the bell.
Louder and louder the choristers sung
As they trembled more and more,
And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid,
They never had prayed so before.
The cock he crew, away they flew
The fiends from the herald of day,
And undisturb'd the choristers sing
And the fifty priests they pray.
The third night came and the tapers flame
A hideous stench did make,
And they burnt as though they had been dipt
In the burning brimstone lake.
And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,
Grew momently more and more,
And strokes as of a battering ram
Did shake the strong church door.
The bellmen they for very fear
Could toll the bell no longer,
And still as louder grew the strokes
Their fear it grew the stronger.
The monk and nun forgot their beads,
They fell on the ground dismay'd,
There was not a single saint in heaven
Whom they did not call to aid.
And the choristers song that late was so strong
Grew a quaver of consternation,
For the church did rock as an earthquake shock
Uplifted its foundation.
And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast
That shall one day wake the dead,
The strong church door could bear no more
And the bolts and the bars they fled.
And the taper's light was extinguish'd quite,
And the choristers faintly sung,
And the priests dismay'd, panted and prayed
Till fear froze every tongue.
And in He came with eyes of flame
The Fiend to fetch the dead,
And all the church with his presence glowed
Like a fiery furnace red.
He laid his hand on the iron chains
And like flax they moulder'd asunder,
And the coffin lid that was barr'd so firm
He burst with his voice of thunder.
And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise
And come with her master away,
And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse,
At the voice she was forced to obey.
She rose on her feet in her winding sheet,
Her dead flesh quivered with fear,
And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave
Never did mortal hear.
She followed the fiend to the church door,
There stood a black horse there,
His breath was red like furnace smoke,
His eyes like a meteor's glare.
The fiendish force flung her on the horse
And he leapt up before,
And away like the lightning's speed they went
And she was seen no more.
They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks
For four miles round they could hear,
And children at rest at their mother's breast,
Started and screamed with fear.
poem by Robert Southey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lazarus
“No, Mary, there was nothing—not a word.
Nothing, and always nothing. Go again
Yourself, and he may listen—or at least
Look up at you, and let you see his eyes.
I might as well have been the sound of rain,
A wind among the cedars, or a bird;
Or nothing. Mary, make him look at you;
And even if he should say that we are nothing,
To know that you have heard him will be something.
And yet he loved us, and it was for love
The Master gave him back. Why did he wait
So long before he came? Why did he weep?
I thought he would be glad—and Lazarus—
To see us all again as he had left us—
All as it was, all as it was before.”
Mary, who felt her sister’s frightened arms
Like those of someone drowning who had seized her,
Fearing at last they were to fail and sink
Together in this fog-stricken sea of strangeness,
Fought sadly, with bereaved indignant eyes,
To find again the fading shores of home
That she had seen but now could see no longer
Now she could only gaze into the twilight,
And in the dimness know that he was there,
Like someone that was not. He who had been
Their brother, and was dead, now seemed alive
Only in death again—or worse than death;
For tombs at least, always until today,
Though sad were certain. There was nothing certain
For man or God in such a day as this;
For there they were alone, and there was he—
Alone; and somewhere out of Bethany,
The Master—who had come to them so late,
Only for love of them and then so slowly,
And was for their sake hunted now by men
Who feared Him as they feared no other prey—
For the world’s sake was hidden. “Better the tomb
For Lazarus than life, if this be life,”
She thought; and then to Martha, “No, my dear,”
She said aloud; “not as it was before.
Nothing is ever as it was before,
Where Time has been. Here there is more than Time;
And we that are so lonely and so far
From home, since he is with us here again,
Are farther now from him and from ourselves
Than we are from the stars. He will not speak
Until the spirit that is in him speaks;
And we must wait for all we are to know,
Or even to learn that we are not to know.
Martha, we are too near to this for knowledge,
And that is why it is that we must wait.
Our friends are coming if we call for them,
And there are covers we’ll put over him
To make him warmer. We are too young, perhaps,
To say that we know better what is best
Than he. We do not know how old he is.
If you remember what the Master said,
Try to believe that we need have no fear.
Let me, the selfish and the careless one,
Be housewife and a mother for tonight;
For I am not so fearful as you are,
And I was not so eager.”
Martha sank
Down at her sister’s feet and there sat watching
A flower that had a small familiar name
That was as old as memory, but was not
The name of what she saw now in its brief
And infinite mystery that so frightened her
That life became a terror. Tears again
Flooded her eyes and overflowed. “No, Mary,”
She murmured slowly, hating her own words
Before she heard them, “you are not so eager
To see our brother as we see him now;
Neither is he who gave him back to us.
I was to be the simple one, as always,
And this was all for me.” She stared again
Over among the trees where Lazarus,
Who seemed to be a man who was not there,
Might have been one more shadow among shadows,
If she had not remembered. Then she felt
The cool calm hands of Mary on her face,
And shivered, wondering if such hands were real.
“The Master loved you as he loved us all,
Martha; and you are saying only things
That children say when they have had no sleep.
Try somehow now to rest a little while;
You know that I am here, and that our friends
Are coming if I call.”
Martha at last
Arose, and went with Mary to the door,
Where they stood looking off at the same place,
And at the same shape that was always there
As if it would not ever move or speak,
And always would be there. “Mary, go now,
Before the dark that will be coming hides him.
I am afraid of him out there alone,
Unless I see him; and I have forgotten
What sleep is. Go now—make him look at you—
And I shall hear him if he stirs or whispers.
Go!—or I’ll scream and bring all Bethany
To come and make him speak. Make him say once
That he is glad, and God may say the rest.
Though He say I shall sleep, and sleep for ever,
I shall not care for that… Go!”
Mary, moving
Almost as if an angry child had pushed her,
Went forward a few steps; and having waited
As long as Martha’s eyes would look at hers,
Went forward a few more, and a few more;
And so, until she came to Lazarus,
Who crouched with his face hidden in his hands,
Like one that had no face. Before she spoke,
Feeling her sister’s eyes that were behind her
As if the door where Martha stood were now
As far from her as Egypt, Mary turned
Once more to see that she was there. Then, softly,
Fearing him not so much as wondering
What his first word might be, said, “Lazarus,
Forgive us if we seemed afraid of you;”
And having spoken, pitied her poor speech
That had so little seeming gladness in it,
So little comfort, and so little love.
There was no sign from him that he had heard,
Or that he knew that she was there, or cared
Whether she spoke to him again or died
There at his feet. “We love you, Lazarus,
And we are not afraid. The Master said
We need not be afraid. Will you not say
To me that you are glad? Look, Lazarus!
Look at my face, and see me. This is Mary.”
She found his hands and held them. They were cool,
Like hers, but they were not so calm as hers.
Through the white robes in which his friends had wrapped him
When he had groped out of that awful sleep,
She felt him trembling and she was afraid.
At last he sighed; and she prayed hungrily
To God that she might hear again the voice
Of Lazarus, whose hands were giving her now
The recognition of a living pressure
That was almost a language. When he spoke,
Only one word that she had waited for
Came from his lips, and that word was her name.
“I heard them saying, Mary, that he wept
Before I woke.” The words were low and shaken,
Yet Mary knew that he who uttered them
Was Lazarus; and that would be enough
Until there should be more… “Who made him come,
That he should weep for me?… Was it you, Mary?”
The questions held in his incredulous eyes
Were more than she would see. She looked away;
But she had felt them and should feel for ever,
She thought, their cold and lonely desperation
That had the bitterness of all cold things
That were not cruel. “I should have wept,” he said,
“If I had been the Master….”
Now she could feel
His hands above her hair—the same black hair
That once he made a jest of, praising it,
While Martha’s busy eyes had left their work
To flash with laughing envy. Nothing of that
Was to be theirs again; and such a thought
Was like the flying by of a quick bird
Seen through a shadowy doorway in the twilight.
For now she felt his hands upon her head,
Like weights of kindness: “I forgive you, Mary….
You did not know—Martha could not have known—
Only the Master knew…. Where is he now?
Yes, I remember. They came after him.
May the good God forgive him…. I forgive him.
I must; and I may know only from him
The burden of all this… Martha was here—
But I was not yet here. She was afraid….
Why did he do it, Mary? Was it—you?
Was it for you?… Where are the friends I saw?
Yes, I remember. They all went away.
I made them go away…. Where is he now?…
What do I see down there? Do I see Martha—
Down by the door?… I must have time for this.”
Lazarus looked about him fearfully,
And then again at Mary, who discovered
Awakening apprehension in his eyes,
And shivered at his feet. All she had feared
Was here; and only in the slow reproach
Of his forgiveness lived his gratitude.
Why had he asked if it was all for her
That he was here? And what had Martha meant?
Why had the Master waited? What was coming
To Lazarus, and to them, that had not come?
What had the Master seen before he came,
That he had come so late?
“Where is he, Mary?”
Lazarus asked again. “Where did he go?”
Once more he gazed about him, and once more
At Mary for an answer. “Have they found him?
Or did he go away because he wished
Never to look into my eyes again?…
That, I could understand…. Where is he, Mary?”
“I do not know,” she said. “Yet in my heart
I know that he is living, as you are living—
Living, and here. He is not far from us.
He will come back to us and find us all—
Lazarus, Martha, Mary—everything—
All as it was before. Martha said that.
And he said we were not to be afraid.”
Lazarus closed his eyes while on his face
A tortured adumbration of a smile
Flickered an instant. “All as it was before,”
He murmured wearily. “Martha said that;
And he said you were not to be afraid …
Not you… Not you… Why should you be afraid?
Give all your little fears, and Martha’s with them,
To me; and I will add them unto mine,
Like a few rain-drops to Gennesaret.”
“If you had frightened me in other ways,
Not willing it,” Mary said, “I should have known
You still for Lazarus. But who is this?
Tell me again that you are Lazarus;
And tell me if the Master gave to you
No sign of a new joy that shall be coming
To this house that he loved. Are you afraid?
Are you afraid, who have felt everything—
And seen…?”
But Lazarus only shook his head,
Staring with his bewildered shining eyes
Hard into Mary’s face. “I do not know,
Mary,” he said, after a long time.
“When I came back, I knew the Master’s eyes
Were looking into mine. I looked at his,
And there was more in them than I could see.
At first I could see nothing but his eyes;
Nothing else anywhere was to be seen—
Only his eyes. And they looked into mine—
Long into mine, Mary, as if he knew.”
Mary began to be afraid of words
As she had never been afraid before
Of loneliness or darkness, or of death,
But now she must have more of them or die:
“He cannot know that there is worse than death,”
She said. “And you…”
“Yes, there is worse than death.”
Said Lazarus; “and that was what he knew;
And that is what it was that I could see
This morning in his eyes. I was afraid,
But not as you are. There is worse than death,
Mary; and there is nothing that is good
For you in dying while you are still here.
Mary, never go back to that again.
You would not hear me if I told you more,
For I should say it only in a language
That you are not to learn by going back.
To be a child again is to go forward—
And that is much to know. Many grow old,
And fade, and go away, not knowing how much
That is to know. Mary, the night is coming,
And there will soon be darkness all around you.
Let us go down where Martha waits for us,
And let there be light shining in this house.”
He rose, but Mary would not let him go:
“Martha, when she came back from here, said only
That she heard nothing. And have you no more
For Mary now than you had then for Martha?
Is Nothing, Lazarus, all you have for me?
Was Nothing all you found where you have been?
If that be so, what is there worse than that—
Or better—if that be so? And why should you,
With even our love, go the same dark road over?”
“I could not answer that, if that were so,”
Said Lazarus,—“not even if I were God.
Why should He care whether I came or stayed,
If that were so? Why should the Master weep—
For me, or for the world,—or save himself
Longer for nothing? And if that were so,
Why should a few years’ more mortality
Make him a fugitive where flight were needless,
Had he but held his peace and given his nod
To an old Law that would be new as any?
I cannot say the answer to all that;
Though I may say that he is not afraid,
And that it is not for the joy there is
In serving an eternal Ignorance
Of our futility that he is here.
Is that what you and Martha mean by Nothing?
Is that what you are fearing? If that be so,
There are more weeds than lentils in your garden.
And one whose weeds are laughing at his harvest
May as well have no garden; for not there
Shall he be gleaning the few bits and orts
Of life that are to save him. For my part,
I am again with you, here among shadows
That will not always be so dark as this;
Though now I see there’s yet an evil in me
That made me let you be afraid of me.
No, I was not afraid—not even of life.
I thought I was…I must have time for this;
And all the time there is will not be long.
I cannot tell you what the Master saw
This morning in my eyes. I do not know.
I cannot yet say how far I have gone,
Or why it is that I am here again,
Or where the old road leads. I do not know.
I know that when I did come back, I saw
His eyes again among the trees and faces—
Only his eyes; and they looked into mine—
Long into mine—long, long, as if he knew.”
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Crown Of Thorns 300th
the crown of thorns pierced his skin.
he bled outside and within.
he knew that this was meant to be
so that all mankind could be set free.
although his heart and body
was full of pain
he knew the world
would never be the same.
as they laid him upon the cross
and tied his hands and feet.
he knew that soon
his father he would meet.
he felt the spikes pierce his hands
and his blood fall to the ground.
he had wanted to scream
but did not make a sound.
they then took his feet
and did the same.
but he refused to give in
and took all the pain.
the pain is for the world
that was coming to an end
and he also knew
that he was given up by a friend
and as they picked up the cross
and placed it in the ground.
he heard the screams of the others
asking to go with him
and to ask GOD above to
wipe away their sins.
the crown of thorns that
they placed upon your head.
is for all the pains
that this world will soon dread.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Quality of Courage
Black trees against an orange sky,
Trees that the wind shook terribly,
Like a harsh spume along the road,
Quavering up like withered arms,
Writhing like streams, like twisted charms
Of hot lead flung in snow. Below
The iron ice stung like a goad,
Slashing the torn shoes from my feet,
And all the air was bitter sleet.
And all the land was cramped with snow,
Steel-strong and fierce and glimmering wan,
Like pale plains of obsidian.
-- And yet I strove -- and I was fire
And ice -- and fire and ice were one
In one vast hunger of desire.
A dim desire, of pleasant places,
And lush fields in the summer sun,
And logs aflame, and walls, and faces,
-- And wine, and old ambrosial talk,
A golden ball in fountains dancing,
And unforgotten hands. (Ah, God,
I trod them down where I have trod,
And they remain, and they remain,
Etched in unutterable pain,
Loved lips and faces now apart,
That once were closer than my heart --
In agony, in agony,
And horribly a part of me. . . .
For Lethe is for no man set,
And in Hell may no man forget.)
And there were flowers, and jugs, bright-glancing,
And old Italian swords -- and looks,
A moment's glance of fire, of fire,
Spiring, leaping, flaming higher,
Into the intense, the cloudless blue,
Until two souls were one, and flame,
And very flesh, and yet the same!
As if all springs were crushed anew
Into one globed drop of dew!
But for the most I thought of heat,
Desiring greatly. . . . Hot white sand
The lazy body lies at rest in,
Or sun-dried, scented grass to nest in,
And fires, innumerable fires,
Great fagots hurling golden gyres
Of sparks far up, and the red heart
In sea-coals, crashing as they part
To tiny flares, and kindling snapping,
Bunched sticks that burst their string and wrapping
And fall like jackstraws; green and blue
The evil flames of driftwood too,
And heavy, sullen lumps of coke
With still, fierce heat and ugly smoke. . . .
. . . And then the vision of his face,
And theirs, all theirs, came like a sword,
Thrice, to the heart -- and as I fell
I thought I saw a light before.
I woke. My hands were blue and sore,
Torn on the ice. I scarcely felt
The frozen sleet begin to melt
Upon my face as I breathed deeper,
But lay there warmly, like a sleeper
Who shifts his arm once, and moans low,
And then sinks back to night. Slow, slow,
And still as Death, came Sleep and Death
And looked at me with quiet breath.
Unbending figures, black and stark
Against the intense deeps of the dark.
Tall and like trees. Like sweet and fire
Rest crept and crept along my veins,
Gently. And there were no more pains. . . .
Was it not better so to lie?
The fight was done. Even gods tire
Of fighting. . . . My way was the wrong.
Now I should drift and drift along
To endless quiet, golden peace . . .
And let the tortured body cease.
And then a light winked like an eye.
. . . And very many miles away
A girl stood at a warm, lit door,
Holding a lamp. Ray upon ray
It cloaked the snow with perfect light.
And where she was there was no night
Nor could be, ever. God is sure,
And in his hands are things secure.
It is not given me to trace
The lovely laughter of that face,
Like a clear brook most full of light,
Or olives swaying on a height,
So silver they have wings, almost;
Like a great word once known and lost
And meaning all things. Nor her voice
A happy sound where larks rejoice,
Her body, that great loveliness,
The tender fashion of her dress,
I may not paint them.
These I see,
Blazing through all eternity,
A fire-winged sign, a glorious tree!
She stood there, and at once I knew
The bitter thing that I must do.
There could be no surrender now;
Though Sleep and Death were whispering low.
My way was wrong. So. Would it mend
If I shrank back before the end?
And sank to death and cowardice?
No, the last lees must be drained up,
Base wine from an ignoble cup;
(Yet not so base as sleek content
When I had shrunk from punishment)
The wretched body strain anew!
Life was a storm to wander through.
I took the wrong way. Good and well,
At least my feet sought out not Hell!
Though night were one consuming flame
I must go on for my base aim,
And so, perhaps, make evil grow
To something clean by agony . . .
And reach that light upon the snow . . .
And touch her dress at last . . .
So, so,
I crawled. I could not speak or see
Save dimly. The ice glared like fire,
A long bright Hell of choking cold,
And each vein was a tautened wire,
Throbbing with torture -- and I crawled.
My hands were wounds.
So I attained
The second Hell. The snow was stained
I thought, and shook my head at it
How red it was! Black tree-roots clutched
And tore -- and soon the snow was smutched
Anew; and I lurched babbling on,
And then fell down to rest a bit,
And came upon another Hell . . .
Loose stones that ice made terrible,
That rolled and gashed men as they fell.
I stumbled, slipped . . . and all was gone
That I had gained. Once more I lay
Before the long bright Hell of ice.
And still the light was far away.
There was red mist before my eyes
Or I could tell you how I went
Across the swaying firmament,
A glittering torture of cold stars,
And how I fought in Titan wars . . .
And died . . . and lived again upon
The rack . . . and how the horses strain
When their red task is nearly done. . . .
I only know that there was Pain,
Infinite and eternal Pain.
And that I fell -- and rose again.
So she was walking in the road.
And I stood upright like a man,
Once, and fell blind, and heard her cry . . .
And then there came long agony.
There was no pain when I awoke,
No pain at all. Rest, like a goad,
Spurred my eyes open -- and light broke
Upon them like a million swords:
And she was there. There are no words.
Heaven is for a moment's span.
And ever.
So I spoke and said,
"My honor stands up unbetrayed,
And I have seen you. Dear . . ."
Sharp pain
Closed like a cloak. . . .
I moaned and died.
Here, even here, these things remain.
I shall draw nearer to her side.
Oh dear and laughing, lost to me,
Hidden in grey Eternity,
I shall attain, with burning feet,
To you and to the mercy-seat!
The ages crumble down like dust,
Dark roses, deviously thrust
And scattered in sweet wine -- but I,
I shall lift up to you my cry,
And kiss your wet lips presently
Beneath the ever-living Tree.
This in my heart I keep for goad!
Somewhere, in Heaven she walks that road.
Somewhere . . . in Heaven . . . she walks . . . that . . . road. . . .
poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Secret Gratitude
1
She cleaned house, and then lay down long
On the long stair.
On one of those cold white wings
That the strange fowl provide for us like one hillside of the sea,
That cautery of snow that blinds us,
Pitiless light,
One winter afternoon
Fair near the place where she sank down with one wing broken,
Three friends and I were caught
Stalk still in the light.
Five of the lights. Why should they care for our eyes?
Five deer stood there.
They looked back, a good minute.
They knew us, all right:
Four chemical accidents of horror pausing
Between one suicide or another
On the passing wing
Of an angel that cared no more for our biology, our pity, and our pain
Than we care.
Why should any mere multitude of the angels care
To lay one blind white plume down
On this outermost limit of something that is probably no more
Than an aphid,
An aphid which is one of the angels whose wings toss the black pears
Of tears down on the secret shores
Of the seas in the corner
Of a poet’s closed eye.
Why should five deer
Gaze back at us?
They gazed back at us.
Afraid, and yet they stood there,
More alive than we four, in their terror,
In their good time.
We had a dog.
We could have got other dogs.
Two or three dogs could have taken turns running and dragging down
Those fleet lights, whose tails must look as mysterious as the
Stars in Los Angeles.
We are men.
It doesn’t even satisfy us
To kill one another.
We are a smear of obscenity
On the lake whose only peace
Is a hole where the moon
Abandoned us, that poor
Girl who can’t leave us alone.
If I were the moon I would shrink into a sand grain
In the corner of the poet’s eye,
While there’s still room.
We are men.
We are capable of anything.
We could have killed every one of those deer.
The very moon of lovers tore herself with the agony of a wounded tigress
Out of our side.
We can kill anything.
We can kill our own bodies.
Those deer on the hillside have no idea what in hell
We are except murderers.
They know that much, and don’t think
They don’t.
Man’s heart is the rotten yolk of a blacksnake egg
Corroding, as it is just born, in a pile of dead
Horse dung.
I have no use for the human creature.
He subtly extracts pain awake in his own kind.
I am born one, out of an accidental hump of chemistry.
I have no use.
2
But
We didn’t set dogs on the deer,
Even though we know,
As well as you know,
We could have got away with it,
Because
Who cares?
3
Boissevain, who was he?
Was he human? I doubt it,
From what I know
Of men.
Who was he,
Hobbling with his dry eyes
Along in the rain?
I think he must have fallen down like the plumes of new snow,
I think he must have fallen into the grass, I think he
Must surely have grown around
Her wings, gathering and being gathered,
Leaf, string, anything she could use
To build her still home of songs
Within sound of water.
4
By God, come to that, I would have married her too,
If I’d got the chance, and she’d let me.
Think of that. Being alive with a girl
Who could turn into a laurel tree
Whenever she felt like it.
Think of that.
5
Outside my window just now
I can hear a small waterfall rippling antiphonally down over
The stones of my poem.
poem by James Arlington Wright
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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