Related quotes: What an image of peace...

Ultima Thule: Old St. David's At Radnor

What an image of peace and rest
Is this little church among its graves!
All is so quiet; the troubled breast,
The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed,
Here may find the repose it craves.

See, how the ivy climbs and expands
Over this humble hermitage,
And seems to caress with its little hands
The rough, gray stones, as a child that stands
Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age!

You cross the threshold; and dim and small
Is the space that serves for the Shepherd's Fold;
The narrow aisle, the bare, white wall,
The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall,
Whisper and say: 'Alas! we are old.'

Herbert's chapel at Bemerton
Hardly more spacious is than this;
But poet and pastor, blent in one,
Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun,
That lowly and holy edifice.

It is not the wall of stone without
That makes the building small or great,
But the soul's light shining round about,
And the faith that overcometh doubt,
And the love that stronger is than hate.

Were I a pilgrim in search of peace,
Were I a pastor of Holy Church,
More than a Bishop's diocese
Should I prize this place of rest and release
From further longing and further search.

Here would I stay, and let the world
With its distant thunder roar and roll;
Storms do not rend the sail that is furled;
Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and whirled
In an eddy of wind, is the anchored soul.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

Old St David's at Radnor

What an image of peace and rest
Is this little church among its graves!
All is so quiet; the troubled breast,
The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed,
Here may find the repose it craves.

See, how the ivy climbs and expands
Over this humble hermitage,
And seems to caress with its little hands
The rough, gray stones, as a child that stands
Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age!

Herbert's chapel at Bemerton
Hardly more spacious is than this;
But Poet and Pastor, blent in one,
Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun,
That lowly and holy edifice.

It is not the wall of stone without
That makes the building small or great
But the soul's light shining round about,
And the faith that overcometh doubt,
And the love that stronger is than hate.

Were I a pilgrim in search of peace,
Were I a pastor of Holy Church,
More than a Bishop's diocese
Should I prize this place of rest, and release
From farther longing and farther search.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Little Church Round the Corner

'Bring him not here, where our sainted feet
Are treading the path to glory;
Bring him not here, where our Saviour sweet
Repeats for
us
his story.
Go, take him where such things are done
(For he sat in the seat of the scorner),
To where they have room, for we have none,--
To the little church down the corner.'

So spake the holy man of God,
Of another man, his brother,
Whose cold remains, ere they sought the sod,
Had only asked that a Christian rite
Might be read above them by one whose light
Was, 'Brethren, love one another:'
Had only asked that a prayer be read
Ere his flesh went down to join the dead,
While his spirit looked with suppliant eyes,
Searching for God throughout the skies.
But the priest frowned 'No,' and his brow was bare
Of love in the sight of the mourner,
And they looked for Christ and found him--where?
In that little church round the corner.

Ah! well, God grant when, with aching feet,
We tread life's last few paces,
That we may hear some accents sweet,
And kiss, to the end, fond faces.
God grant that this tired flesh may rest
('Mid many a musing mourner),
While the sermon is preached and the rites are read
In no church where the heart of love is dead,
And the pastor's a pious prig at best,
But in some small nook where God's confessed,--
Some little church round the corner.

poem by Anonymous Americas
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‘holy Family Church House-warming, Perundurai, T.n.’

Excerpt from Dr John Celes’ Welcome Speech
(to be held on 05-02-2010)

The Shepherd comes to meet his flock,
And bless the church that’s newly built,
Wherein an older church had stood on rock –
A sacred ground of prayer for Catholics!

Let’s welcome him; let’s welcome him, ye sheep!
He brings with him his staff that protects us;
This is the time our hearts with joy must weep;
The anointing will give us greater bliss.

Let’s thank the Lord for giving us this house
Of prayer to worship the ‘King of kings’;
Let everyone take Jesus Christ as spouse,
And tread the road to heaven as earthlings.

The Church though small looks splendidly laid out;
It has been christened ‘Holy Family Church’;
Our parish is a small one without doubt,
Nevertheless, peeps in internet-search!

The flock is one led by our parish priest,
Father Claudius, a dynamic, young man!
Who works hard without mistakes in the least;
‘May God give him good health and long life-span! ’

Our heart-felt thanks to Bishop and all souls
Who gave the land for building the new Church;
Our hearty thanks to all who played new roles,
And doled the sums that can now help to preach.

God made it possible to build His house!
Let’s worship Him with masses, hymns and pray;
Let’s reach the world at the click of a mouse!
And preach the Word of God by night and day.

We thank You God for giving us this place,
And worship Jesus Christ, as a family;
Let sweat of foreheads reinforce this base,
And help to rear this provident LILY!

Dedicated to: The Most. Rev. Dr. Thomas Aquinas M.A., DCL.,
Bishop of Coimbatore diocese
Rev. Fr. Xavier Claudius, the Parish priest and
All parishners of ‘Holy Family Church, Perundurai, T.N., ’

poem by John Celes
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Yes I Believe

The spirit of Christmas is the spirit of love
Still there when the innocence has gone
But we have each other we laugh and we cry
The cares of the world still carry on
Yes I believe in a better world
And like the rest of us I pray
For peace on this earth and a better life
With every beautiful day
I once met a holy man who showed me the way
The road to tranquility at last
The more he was listening, the more he would say
With the tales of the days of future passed
He said "Yes I believe in a better world
And like the rest of us I try
To hold on to hope for a better life
With every day that goes by"
And if we dare to dream of Paradise unseen
It might come true
And if you stand by me
I swear with all my heart
I'll stand by you
Yes, I believe in a better world
A world where my sisters can be free
And I have a place in my brother's heart
For everybody to see
I dream of my destiny, my days in the sun
To live in the garden of our love
I search for some happiness
I search for my soul
I pray for some strength from God above
Yes, I believe in a better world
And like the rest of us, I pray
For peace on this earth and a better life
With every beautiful day
With every beautiful day.

song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At Thurgarton Church

To the memory of my father

At Thurgarton Church the sun
burns the winter clouds over
the gaunt Danish stone
and thatched reeds that cover
the barest chapel I know.

I could compare it with
the Norse longboats that bore
burning the body forth
in honour from the shore
of great fjords long ago.

The sky is red and cold
overhead, and three small
sturdy trees keep a hold
on the world and the stone wall
that encloses the dead below.

I enter and find I stand
in a great barn, bleak and bare.
Like ice the winter ghosts and
the white walls gleam and flare
and flame as the sun drops low.

And I see, then, that slowly
the December day has gone.
I stand in the silence, not wholly
believing I am alone.
Somehow I cannot go.

Then a small wind rose, and the trees
began to crackle and stir
and I watched the moon by degrees
ascend in the window till her
light cut a wing in the shadow.

I thought: the House of the Dead.
The dead moon inherits it.
And I seem in a sense to have died
as I rise from where I sit
and out into darkness go.

I know as I leave I shall pass
where Thurgarton’s dead lie
at those old stones in the grass
under the cold moon’s eye.
I see the old bones glow.

No, they do not sleep here
in the long holy night of
the serene soul, but keep here
a dark tenancy and the right of
rising up to go.

Here the owl and soul shriek with
the voice of the dead as they turn
on the polar spit and burn
without hope and seek with
out hope the holy home below.

Yet to them the mole and
mouse bring a wreath and a breath
of the flowering leaves of the soul, and
it is from the Tree of Death
the leaves of life grow.

The rain, the sometime summer
rain on a memory of roses
will fall lightly and come a-
mong them as it erases
summers so long ago.

And the voices of those
once so much loved will flitter
over the nettled rows
of graves, and the holly tree twitter
like friends they used to know.

And not far away the
icy and paralysed stream
has found it also, that day the
flesh became glass and a dream
with no where to go.

Haunting the December
fields their bitter lives
entreat us to remember
the lost spirit that grieves
over these fields like a scarecrow.

That grieves over all it ever
did and all, all not
done, that grieves over
its crosspurposed lot:
to know and not to know.

The masterless dog sits
outside the church door
with dereliction haunting its
heart that hankers for
the hand that loved it so.

Not in a small grave
outside the stone wall
will the love that it gave
ever be returned, not for all
time or tracks in the snow.

More mourned the death of the dog
than our bones ever shall
receive from the hand of god
this bone again, or all
that high hand could bestow.

As I stand by the porch
I believe that no one has heard
here in Thurgarton Church
a single veritable word
save the unspoken No.

The godfathered negative
that responds to our mistaken
incredulous and heartbroken
desire above all to live
as though things were not so.

Desire to live as though the
two-footed clay stood up
proud never to know the
tempests that rage in the cup
under a rainbow.

Desire above all to live
as though the soul was stone,
believing we cannot give
or love since we are alone
and always will be so.

That heartbroken desire
to live as though no light
ever set the seas on fire
and no sun burned at night
or Mercy walked to and fro.

The proud flesh cries: I am not
caught up in the great cloud
of my unknowing. But that
proud flesh had endowed
us with the cloud we know.

To this the unspoken No
of the dead god responds
and then the whirlwinds blow
over all the things and beyond
and the dead mop and mow.

And there in the livid dust
and bones of death we search
until we find as we must
outside Thurgarton Church
only wild grasses blow.

I hear the old bone in me cry
and the dying spirit call:
I have forfeited all
and once and for all must die
and this is all that I know.

For now in a wild way we
know that justice is served
and that we die in the clay we
dread, desired, and deserved,
awaiting no Judgement Day.

poem by George Barker
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The Crucifix

"Into thy hands I commend my spirit."

[This very ancient crucifix is sculptured on the exterior wall of the Abbey Church of Romsey. Its characteristic is a hand reaching down from the clouds, over the cross. It is said to be unique.]

In a quiet nook it standeth,
Which careless eyes might miss,
That image of Thy sorrow,
And fountain of our bliss.

Low within reach it standeth,
Close to the old church, door,
And by the common pathway,
Appealing evermore.

Low on the wall, that never
The dimmest eyes may miss,
And the lips of the little children
May reach the feet to kiss.

That humble, simple image,
Wrought by the hands of old;
Good hands! that so many ages
Helpless have grown and cold.

That blessed, sacred image
Born of the heart of old
That through the endless ages
Shall nevermore grow cold.

In the common stone rude-carven,
By no great artist's touch;
Yet never the wide world over
Will you find another such.

You may search the wide world over
From freezing to burning zone,
You will never find another
Quite like this only one.

Deep, deep the nails are driven
In the hands they crucified -
So deep, the nails you see not,
But only the arms stretched wide.

And over the head, so weary,
Bowing itself to die,
An open hand down-reaching
Forth from the clouded sky.

The torturers' hands have finished;
His hands are nailèd fast;
"Into thy hands my spirit -
Father, thy hands!" - at last.

. . . . . . .

Lord, ere thou call our spirits
Within thy hands to be,
Give us some such dear likeness
To leave behind of thee.

Hid in some quiet corner,
Cut in the common stone,
Poor, yet our best, we pray thee,
Our best, and our very own.

. . . . . . .

Dear Lord, our hearts grow bolder;
We dare to ask much more,
Knowing the more we ask thee,
Thou art hut pleased the more.

Give us to be that image
By the common paths like this:
Low, where the dimmest vision,
The features need not miss;
Low, where the lips of the children
May reach to cling and kiss.

Where the nails to the cross which fix us,
So deep in the wounds may hide,
That men see no more the torture,
But only the arms stretched wide.

A humble, simple image,
Cut in the common stone;
Like thee, yet like no other,
Because thy very own.

poem by Elizabeth Rundle Charles from Littell's Living Age, Volume 131, Issue 1693
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Monk (2)

3 a.m. in the dark morning of a dark night;

a kneeling figure;
a single candle flickering on a gleam of gold.

I cannot see how great or small the dark space here, of
chapel, church, echoing cathedral; or
are there trees around; or a stable; or a prison cell..? ..

I cannot see how great or small his mind;
I cannot see how great or small his heart;
his soul…

monk…
your image, your imagined life-style
fascinates me, repels me,
overwhelms me, leaves me indifferent,
humiliates me, inspires me…

we all look for love; imagine
giving all the love you have,
all the love you hope for,
all the love you may never know,

in the faith, the hope, the loving-kindness,
that, all this surrendered, that emptied mind and heart
be filled with a trickle or a torrent
of a finer love…

your mother was disappointed, so you told me:
better to be born in a large Irish family
religious enough to believe that nature
manages contraception as well as she manages love…
your brothers and sisters will provide her grandchildren enough..
and she knows that she too, will surrender
a colleen's fine bold looks, for a finer radiance,
of love for family…

would it be better if you had had that vigorous love-life
which you had willingly, reluctantly, given up
for the love of love itself?

or should it be, that what you’ve never had, that you don’t miss…

and now, in the sweet and smiling peace of your presence,
your undemanding presence that urges me to tease you,
challenge you, annoy you…
now, I seem to have no questions that are relevant,
for those I had, seem dry and theoretical,
rebounding back on me when aimed at you..

yes, monk –
you tease me, challenge me, annoy me,
in your turn; hearing in my inner ear
the crashing waters of the great sea of faith,
the lure of sheer totality: give it all up, all of it,
the what you know and what you don’t,
the what you’ve lived and what you’ve not…
the what and whom you’ve loved,
and what the greater love might be;

3 a.m. in the dark morning of a dark night and
they're all filing silently into their pews; but
it’s summer, and already there’s a hint
through the eastern window over there, of a gentle dawn
that seems to have to it, all the time in the world,
telling the candle-lit and holy heart
of some space-time that is love.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Anniversary hymn

[sung to tune: "All Saints New"]

Our fathers, in the years grown dim, reared slowly, wall by wall
A holy dwelling-place for Him, that filleth all in all.
They wrought His house of faith and prayer, the rainbow round the Throne,
A precious temple builded fair on Christ the Cornerstone.

The Angel of the Golden Reed hath found the measure strait'
He hears the Great Foundation plead for ampler wall and gate.
The living pillars of the Truth grown on from morn to morn,
And still the heresy of youth is age's creed outworn.

But steadfast is their inner shrine wrought of the heart's fine gold,
Its hunger and its thirst divine, with jewels manifold,
Red sard of pain, hope's emerald gleam, white peace, no glory missed
Of righteous life and saintly dream, Jasper to amethyst.

Spirit of Truth, forbid that we who now God's temple are
And keep the faith with minds more free, our father's fabric mar.
Better than thoughts the stars that search is self still sacrificed,
For only Love can build the church whose corner-stone is Christ.

poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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Searching For a Church?

After your long and weary search, have you found the perfect church?
A simple church ruled by men; the perfect church you can’t condemn.
Or do they all appear the same, just another building with His Name?
And once inside you’re not sure, if you feel the presence of The Lord.

There’s only one true Church of God, upon this earth that all men trod.
That is The Church of Jesus Christ, and bought by Jesus, with His life.
God’s Church has no denomination, for in Christ is only one Salvation.
His Church has no walls my friend; it has a beginning but has no end.

Christ’s Church began at Pentecost, not for the righteous, but the lost.
His Church is made of sinful men, whom by God were all condemned.
But redeemed with a special price, when His Son became a sacrifice.
Then dipped into a cleansing flood; sinners purified by Christ’s Blood.

Are you looking to men to find, God’s forgiveness and peace of mind?
My friend, are you truly not that sure, where you can go to be secure?
Christ’s first Church had no steeple, and was filled with humble people.
Humble people who gave their life, to reach the world for Jesus Christ.

If you’re still searching for a church, you should end your weary search.
The Church is men like you and me, saved by Christ’s work on Calvary.
Nothing’s been added to the cross, except sinners who once were lost,
Since, they’ve entered in The Door, and now belong to Christ The Lord.

poem by Bob Gotti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Empire State Human

Since I was very young I realised
I never wanted to be human size
So I avoid the crowds and traffic jams
They just remind me of how small I am
Because of this longing in my heart
Im going to start the growing up
Im going to grow now and never stop
Think like a mountain, grow to the top
Tall, tall, tall, I want to be tall, tall, tall
As big as a wall, wall, wall, as big as a wall, wall, wall
And if Im not tall, tall, tall, then I will grow, grow, grow
Because Im not tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall
Tall, tall, tall, I want to be tall, tall, tall
As big as a wall, wall, wall, as big as a wall, wall, wall
And if Im not tall, tall, tall, then I will grow, grow, grow
Because Im not tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall
With concentration
My size increased
And now Im fourteen stories high
At least!!
Empire state human
Just a bored kid
Ill go to egypt to be
A pyramid
Tall, tall, tall, I want to be tall, tall, tall
As big as a wall, wall, wall, as big as a wall, wall, wall
And if Im not tall, tall, tall, then I will grow, grow, grow
Because Im not tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall
Tall, tall, tall, I want to be tall, tall, tall
As big as a wall, wall, wall, as big as a wall, wall, wall
And if Im not tall, tall, tall, then I will grow, grow, grow
Because Im not tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall, tall
Brick by brick
Stone by stone
Growing till hes fully grown
Brick by brick
Stone by stone
Growing till hes fully grown
Fetch more water
Fetch more sand
Biggest person in the land
Fetch more water
Fetch more sand
Biggest person in the land

song performed by by Human League
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Good Boy

i was baptised a child
few weeks old
at an old church
ten minutes from home on foot
which grandma did
we did not have a car
just driven by a faith in christ
the cross rises so high up
it (the church) still stands today
given a facelight
turning from
a single storey
rectangular humble structure
to a round tall cathedral
only strong young men and women
could reach; alas those thirty forty
steps that have prevented mom
from going to church
too steep for old bones
i was told Christ is the Son of God
all 12 years of education
at an irish run missionary school
where chapel prayers, confessions
and important catholic days
filled the time table too
now swept by tide of time
a river where streams
and tributaries flow into
all the knowledge of the world
they threw me a koran
they threw me buddha's eight fold paths
they threw me bhagavad gita
all those crysal clear catholic teachings challenged
my world helter kelter
torn between heaven and hell
to be a good boy
to remain truthful
yet longing for the truth
in this blurred world
that shouts about miracles, god
from all angles

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Refiner's Gold

He stood before my heart's closed door,
And asked to enter in;
But I had barred the passage o'er
By unbelief and sin.

He came with nail-prints in his hands,
To set my spirit free;
With wounded feet he trod a path
To come and sup with me.

He found me poor and brought me gold,
The fire of love had tried,
And garments whitened by his blood,
My wretchedness to hide.

The glare of life had dimmed my eyes,
Its glamour was too bright.
He came with ointment in his hands
To heal my darkened sight.

He knew my heart was tempest-tossed,
By care and pain oppressed;
He whispered to my burdened heart,
Come unto me and rest.

He found me weary, faint and worn,
On barren mountains cold;
With love's constraint he drew me on,
To shelter in his fold.

Oh! foolish heart, how slow wert thou
To welcome thy dear guest,
To change thy weariness and care
For comfort, peace and rest.

Close to his side, oh! may I stay,
Just to behold his face,
Till I shall wear within my soul
The image of his grace.

The grace that changes hearts of stone
To tenderness and love,
And bids us run with willing feet
Unto his courts above.

poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Forsaken Merman

Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away!
This way, this way!

Call her once before you go--
Call once yet!
In a voice that she will know:
"Margaret! Margaret!"
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear;
Children's voices, wild with pain--
Surely she will come again!
Call her once and come away;
This way, this way!
"Mother dear, we cannot stay!
The wild white horses foam and fret."
Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down;
Call no more!
One last look at the white-wall'd town,
And the little gray church on the windy shore;
Then come down!
She will not come though you call all day;
Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday
We heard the sweet bells over the bay?
In the caverns where we lay,
Through the surf and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,
Where the salt weed sways in the stream,
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world forever and aye?
When did music come this way?
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away?
Once she sate with you and me,
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sate on her knee.
She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well,
When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.
She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea;
She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray
In the little gray church on the shore to-day.
'Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me!
And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee."
I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves;
Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!"
She smil'd, she went up through the surf in the bay.
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone?
"The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;
Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say;
Come!" I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.
We went up the beach, by the sandy down
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town;
Through the narrow pav'd streets, where all was still,
To the little gray church on the windy hill.
From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.
We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,
And we gaz'd up the aisle through the small leaded panes.
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:
"Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!
Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone;
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."
But, ah, she gave me never a look,
For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book!
Loud prays the priest: shut stands the door.
Come away, children, call no more!
Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down!
Down to the depths of the sea!
She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Singing most joyfully.
Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy,
For the humming street, and the child with its toy!
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;
For the wheel where I spun,
And the blessèd light of the sun!"
And so she sings her fill,
Singing most joyfully,
Till the spindle drops from her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand,
And over the sand at the sea;
And her eyes are set in a stare;
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh;
For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,
And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children;
Come, children, come down!
The hoarse wind blows colder;
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl.
Singing: "Here came a mortal,
But faithless was she!
And alone dwell forever
The kings of the sea."

But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow,
When clear falls the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starr'd with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanch'd sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side--
And then come back down.
Singing: "There dwells a lov'd one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely forever
The kings of the sea."

poem by Matthew Arnold (1849)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Who Will Invite The Holy Spirit Into Their Life?

Who will invite
the Holy Spirit
to enter into their life?

What great journeys
will you go on?

What great adventures
will you have
in search of The Holy Spirit
of divine God?

Truly where will you go
even unto
the ends of the earth?

Will you search an entire
world to find
at last The Holy Spirit
of divine God?

If you would find at last
The Holy Spirit of divine God
then open your Bible.

Read learn the divine word.

poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Night

II
Watchman, what of the night?
See you a streak of light?
Whither, O Captain of the quest,
The course we steer for Port of Rest?

How shall he answer - he
Who never put to sea?
Within his tabernacle wall
He cannot even hear us call.

Behind the jealous door
That he must pass no more,
And whence he scarcely dares to look,
He keeps his eyes upon his book.
The little candles, lit
Where the disciples sit,
Light their small refuge round about,
But show no gleam to those without -

Spirits that cannot dwell
In such an airless cell,
Sniffing the sea-winds from afar,
Glimpsing the light of moon and star.

We must fare forth, unsped,
From homely board and bed;
We must set sail for port unknown,
On an uncharted course, alone.

Push off. We have to go,
Whether we choose or no.
The Call, though faint and far away,
Has reached us, and we must obey.
. . . . .

O but the night is dark
Beyond that only ark!
The salt sea-winds blow keen and cold
Outside the shelter of the fold!
Boom of the deep-sea swell,
Solemn as funeral bell -
Silence transcending sound, to make
High courage falter and heart quake . . . . .

What will the voyage cost?
We are already lost
Who turn from land and love, to face
This blank immensity of space.

Push out. We have to go,
Whether we fear or no.
And why stand shivering and appalled?
We go because the Voice has called.

Noah's inspired dove
Took wing to find her love.
The sea is His - safe as the land
Within the hollow of His hand.

Here are the breakers - pull
Before the boat is full!
'Ware the sharp reefs that line the shore!
Row for the open evermore!
. . . . .

O but the night is dark!
Never the faintest spark
Where surf and shore and cities were!
And not a whisper in the air.

The open - heart of grace,
It is a lonely place!
No light on any onward track!
Too far - too late - for turning back!

Where is that little ark -
Those candles in the dark -
The Rock of Ages cleft for me -
The Cross uprising in the sea -

Whereto the drowning grope
With yearning faith and hope,
And cling as to their mother's breast,
And find safe shelter and sweet rest?

Gone, gone - for ever gone!
And still we must press on.
Steady, true soul, too brave to fret!
Press on - we are not drowning yet.

. . . . .

The night is soft and still
That was so wild and chill;
The bosom of the mighty deep
Breathes like a tired child asleep.

So peaceful, so profound,
The silence spread around!
The very breakers of the shore
Moan to the listening ear no more.

Night - but the stars are out.
Darkness of dread and doubt,
The way so lonely and so rough,
Have cleared a little, but enough.

We know not where we are-
Light cannot reach so far,
But shows us we have lost and gained
As the compelling Voice ordained.

Gone, gone beyond recall,
Candle and prisoning wall,
Last echo of the hue and cry,
Last glint of an accusing eye.

Too late for looking back
Over the darkening track.
How should the life-taught soul return
That cannot unlive or unlearn?

. . . . .

Changed, changed, for ever changed,
Since hitherward we ranged,
To vision in a space so vast,
All the perspectives of the past.

How infinitely small
The once so broad and tall -
The aims, the pursuit and the strife
Shut in the sheltered grooves of life!

Those terrifying laws,
The wrangles and the wars
Of church with church and state with state -
The things men love, the things men hate -

Money and gauds and fame,
And neighbours' scorn and blame -
The passion of desire and haste
To gather, to possess, to waste . . . . . .

How infinitely high,
Broad as the sea and sky,
The loyalty of man to man,
Once almost missing from the plan -

The elemental law
That codes and creeds ignore,
Of duty to the trust we hold
For heirs unborn and years untold . . . . . .
. . . . .

Night - and the drifting soul
Still without path or goal.
Yet was the voyage worth the cost.
We are not drowned. We are not lost.
'T'is I. Be not afraid.
Moonlight and stars may fade.
One walks the ocean and the night.
We have no further need of light.

What matters where we go?
We do not ask to know.
He called us, and we came. The quest
For us is ended, and we rest.

poem by Ada Cambridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It's Your Soul

I'm feeling the stress
I'm feeling the pressure
It's setting in
It's breaking me down
I don't know how much longer I can take it
I don't know how much more I can take
I'm seeing the end of myself
I'm seeing that this is all I got
Man I'm depressed
Man I cant do this

I'd never say it out loud, but this is too much
My friend are great they help me forget
I turn to my sins, to my addictions
It's turning me into an empty person
This pressure will break me
I won't say it out loud but I can't take it anymore
I won't say it out loud but this is true horror
I dress it up, I put on a smile, I deaden the pain for awhile
But it's all an act
The pain is quite real
I say I'm tired
And yeah I got no rest
I say I'm sleep deprived, and believe me I don't sleep
But even in my quiet hours...
There is no peace
I say I'm sleep deprived, but it doesn't matter how much I sleep
I'm still tired
It's a never ending tiredness
The feeling is wearing me out
Wearing me out
Until I'm just
Weary
There is no sleep in sleeping
There is no rest and resting
I can't find peace in inner peace
I can't find peace in outer peace
A vacation won't do
So I tell you

It's your soul
The tiredness
It's your soul
The weariness
It's your soul
The depression and longing for more
It's your soul
The brokenness and stress
It's your soul
Feeling like you can't do it
It's your soul
Feeling overwhelmed because it's all too much to handle
It's your soul
The reason you're restless even in times of rest is because
It's your soul

The tiredness and brokenness is in your soul
So let go for once
So let God for once
This problem is deep inside
And no matter how hard you try to hide
You need help
Because it's your soul
So let Jesus restore your soul, because that's rest
So let God give you peace, because He's the only one who can
So let the Holy Spirit comfort you, because He'll mend your soul
It's funny that we always look forward to this vacation or the next
It's funny that we think there's an end to the stress
It's funny that we think we're tired because we don't sleep
It's funny we don't realize we're lost sheep
Because the problem is our soul
Go to Jesus because He promises

'Come to me all who are weary and heavy laden with burden and I will give you rest...'

poem by David Knox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A minute of silence

May the soul that has
Departed rest in peace
You did so much
For the world
You owe the world nothing
The world did so much for you
It is only fair for you to go to
Your place of eternal rest knowing
That the world large is not
Indebted to you
The world and you were firm friend
The world and you will be friends
When you both meet again
May the soul that has departed
Rest in peace and hanker not
After the things of the world
The wold has freed the dead
And let there be peace in Heaven
And the world will find peace
Alleluia!

poem by Ngaka Motaung
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the Spirit of Rumi 32-The Garden

O pilgrim on the path of life,
you have travelled far;
now you have come to rest
and make yourself a home;
and plant a garden there.

You measured out the plot of land,
designed it with your love,
laid precious stones along its paths,
planted trees for shade,
beneath them, marbled seats; and
roses red as heart’s red blood, or
white as purity; scented as all beauty veiled;
among the roses, jasmine, iris, lily, honeysuckle;
and in the evening, night’s pale flowers that yield
all the scented charms of cooling dusk;
and in the centre, a fountain plashing,
ever different, ever the same,
to be the token of your resting soul..

now you build a wall around it,
stone by stone. Two things
I ask of you, O faithful one:

make an arched gate within the wall
that you may not make your neighbour envious;
where you may invite him to join you,
that neighbour who is yourself disguised..

and as you lay each stone
to guard your peace from fox and wolf,
remember - that a paradise with walls
is but a parable, a paradigm,
for that true paradise which knows no walls;
rest there, traveller.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Melancholy [Melancolie]

It was as if a gate was opened in the clouds
Through which the dead night's queen emerged in thin, white shrouds.
Oh, sleep in peace among the torches shining bright,
Rest in your bluish tomb and bathe in silver light,
The starry sky above, your monument will be,
Majestic queen of night that anyone can see!
The world beneath is large, but rime is all around,
Resembling a thin veil that covers all the ground;
The air is full of sparks, the buildings gnawed by time
Gleam like a bunch of ruins that have been smeared with lime.
The isolated graveyard is covered with thick moss,
A greyish owl is resting on a lopsided cross,
The wooden plank is sounding, the bell tower is creaking,
The cunning evil demon somewhere around is sneaking,
But when his wing is touching the shining copper bell
From it a sound emerges, like a pathetic spell.

The church now feels the cold
Deserted are its ruins, and very sad and old
And through the broken windows and through the open door
The wind is blowing harshly and you can hear its roar –
Inside the nave, on pillars, iconostasis, walls,
Faded conturs are present and a big shadow crawls;
The priest is a small cricket, who spins an obscure thought,
While cantor is the mildew, who the decay has brought.

................................................................................

The faith paints in the church small icons, full of glory,
And in my soul it slips its most amazing story,
But from the waves of life and from the stormy days
Only outlines remain and shadows and thick haze.
In vain I search my world within my weary brain,
Because a sad, hoarse cricket is singing in the rain;
On my deserted heart in vain my hand I keep,
It's beating like a fungus in coffins buried deep.
And when I think about my life, it seems to flow
Like an account retold by someone I don't know,
As if it weren't mine, as if I lost a part,
So, who's the guy who tells my story now by heart?
I lend my ear to him and laugh of what he said,
As if it were a fiction... as if I were long dead.

poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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Aaron

Holiness on the head,
Light and perfection on the breast,
Harmonious bells below, raising the dead
To led them unto life and rest.
Thus are true Aarons dressed.

Profaneness in my head,
Defects and darkness in my breast,
A noise of passions ringing me for dead
Unto a place where is no rest.
Poor priest thus am I dressed.

Only another head
I have, another heart and breast,
another music, making live not dead,
without whom I could have no rest:
In him I am well dressed.

Christ is my only head,
My alone only heart and breast,
My only music, striking me even dead;
That to the old man I may rest,
And be in him new dressed.

So holy in my head,
Perfect and light in my dear breast,
My doctrine tuned by Christ, (who is not dead,
But lives in me while I do rest)
Come people; Aaron's dressed.

poem by George Herbert
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