Secret Dreams
The abbot is a saintly man.
He praises me because I can
transcribe and illustrate the word.
So that the gospel may be heard
by other men on other lands,
He says that God has blessed my hands.
Although my frame is poor and weak
and that my talent is unique.
The holy books that I produce.
A bishop would be proud to use
From other duties I am free
save for my calligraphy.
But still pray to God each nigh
to heal my body set me right.
Because I would much rather be
outside and work laboriously.
But I must do as He commands
The abbot says he understands.
How very hard it is for me
to write of things I’ll never see.
Each man must serve as best
he can as soldier priest or husbandman.
To everyman God gave a skill
his part of Gods plan to fulfil.
We are all where we’re meant to be
and must accept this patiently.
I trust the Abbot he is wise
It’s not for us to criticise.
Where we are placed in the great scheme.
but still I am allowed to dream
and in my dreams I’m tall and strong
I need no crutch to get along.
but dreams are not reality.
I am not as I’d like to be.
So I will do the best I can.
As God expects from any man.
Although I sometimes wonder why
I must suffer from such frailty.
It is the cross I have to bear.
My faith in God I can declare
by copying his Holy Word
I wield my quill pen like a sword.
I am to frail and weak to fight
but I have strength and skill to write.
I transcribe and I illustrate
the word of God in copperplate,
in coloured inks of different hues.
My given task I can’t refuse.
The abbot says he can rely
upon my skill and my trained eye.
To train the younger monks to do
the work the way I’ve taught them to.
The time will come when I can’t see.
when old age catches up with me.
The copying will still go on
long after I am dead and gone.
Then I shall reap as I have sown.
My secret dreams to God are known.
I do not think he will condemn
my wish to be like other men.
28-Sep-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
It could be true for M' lady Ernestine
Anselm the abbot avidly believed in bibliography.
He loved learning passionately and filled the abbey library
with scrolls and books of sacred lore and had scriveners by the score.
Who had the task of copying and reproducing everything.
Anselm decreed each monk must learn to read and write each in their turn
Although some monks were not impressed they had to learn at his behest.
Anselm the abbot’s word was law and soon the Abbey boasted more monks who were truly literate and able to communicate.
knowledge acquired painfully to other brothers easily.
Anselm had inadvertently created very probably
The very first religious school where love of learning was the rule
And so the abbey came to be more of a school than monastery
Anselm had realised his dream and risen high in the esteem
not only of the monarchy but of the church authority
The king decreed Anselm should be rewarded for his industry.
So he created Kings College where monks could pass on their knowledge.
And that’s how Oxford came to be in time a university
Where students came from far and wide to study by the riverside
A little bit of history not noted for its accuracy
I have no doubt you will agree it could well solve the mystery.
16-Dec-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Abbot Of Innisfallen
The Abbot of Innisfallen
awoke ere dawn of day;
Under the dewy green leaves
went he forth to pray.
The lake around his island
lay smooth and dark and deep,
And wrapt in a misty stillness
the mountains were all asleep.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
when the dawn was dim and gray;
The prayers of his holy office
he faithfully 'gan say.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
while the dawn was waxing red;
And for his sins' forgiveness
a solemn prayer he said:
Low kneel'd that holy Abbot
while the dawn was waxing clear;
And he pray'd with loving-kindness
for his convent-brethren dear.
Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot
while the dawn was waxing bright;
He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,
he pray'd with all his might.
Low kneel'd that good old Father
while the sun began to dart;
He pray'd a prayer for all men,
he pray'd it from his heart.
His blissful soul was in Heaven,
tho' a breathing man was he;
He was out of time's dominion,
so far as the living may be.
The Abbot of Innisfallen
arose upon his feet;
He heard a small bird singing,
and O but it sung sweet!
It sung upon a holly-bush,
this little snow-white bird;
A song so full of gladness
he never before had heard.
It sung upon a hazel,
it sung upon a thorn;
He had never heard such music
since the hour that he was born.
It sung upon a sycamore,
it sung upon a briar;
To follow the song and hearken
this Abbot could never tire.
Till at last he well bethought him;
he might no longer stay;
So he bless'd the little white singing-bird,
and gladly went his way.
But, when he came to his Abbey,
he found a wondrous change;
He saw no friendly faces there,
for every face was strange.
The strange men spoke unto him;
and he heard from all and each
The foreign tongue of the Sassenach,
not wholesome Irish speech.
Then the oldest monk came forward,
in Irish tongue spake he:
'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress,
and who hath given it to thee?'
'I wear the Augustine's dress,
and Cormac is my name,
The Abbot of this good Abbey
by grace of God I am.
I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day;
and when my prayers were said,
I hearken'd awhile to a little bird,
that sung above my head.'
The monks to him made answer,
'Two hundred years have gone o'er,
Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate,
and never was heard of more.
Matthias now is our Abbot,
and twenty have pass'd away.
The stranger is lord of Ireland;
we live in an evil day.'
'Days will come and go,' he said,
'and the world will pass away,
In Heaven a day is a thousand years,
a thousand years are a day.'
'Now give me absolution;
for my time is come,' said he.
And they gave him absolution,
as speedily as might be.
Then, close outside the window,
the sweetest song they heard
That ever yet since the world began
was utter'd by any bird.
The monks look'd out and saw the bird,
its feathers all white and clean;
And there in a moment, beside it,
another white bird was seen.
Those two they sang together,
waved their white wings, and fled;
Flew aloft, and vanish'd;
but the good old man was dead.
They buried his blessed body
where lake and green-sward meet;
A carven cross above his head,
a holly-bush at his feet;
Where spreads the beautiful water
to gay or cloudy skies,
And the purple peaks of Killarney
from ancient woods arise.
poem by William Allingham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Old Town Types No. 10 - Big Doc Littlejohn
Big Doc. Littlejohn, and ugly man and tall,
He wasn't very graceful, no part of him was small;
Big, frame, big head, huge hands, and red;
But gentle as a woman's as he stooped above the bed,
His great voice muted and the jaw out-thrust
And something there behind his eyes that captured human trust -
Big John Littlejohn, who drove until he died,
In his abbot buggy to the farms outside.
The family physician and the family's true friend;
No household in that wide, new land but loved him to the end;
And the old, fat midwife revered him as a saint:
'Sent straight from God, me dear,' says she. 'A human man she ain't.
No human flesh could bear it, no heart withstand the test,
The slavin', drivin', day an' night with no full hour of rest.'
But Big John Littlejohn, with one of his tired smiles,
Climbed in his abbot buggy for another seven miles.
He'd never met a vitamin, he seldom sought a knife;
But he healed full many a body and he saved full many a life.
For ten years, for twenty years, for forty years he toiled
His aid unstinted and his heart unspoiled,
The friend of rich and poor alike, at everybody's call
For large fee, for small fee, or no fee at all,
In his old abbot buggy, with his wind-blown hair,
Rushing to another case behind his bay blood mare.
They found him on one winter dawn, low-huddled in the seat
Of the old abbot buggy, with the rug about his feet;
The great frame at rest at last, the mind rid of its load,
While the blood mare nibbled at the grass beside the road.
And the sad folk who found him there, before ought else, they say,
First knelt them in the roadside mud and bent their heads to pray
For great John Littlejohn, the grey man and kind,
The healer and the friend, who left not wealth nor foe behind.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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By The Fireside : King Witlaf's Drinking-horn
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,
To the merry monks of Croyland
His drinking-horn bequeathed,--
That, whenever they sat at their revels,
And drank from the golden bowl,
They might remember the donor,
And breathe a prayer for his soul.
So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass;
In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.
They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached his holy word.
They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,
And as soon as the horn was empty
They remembered one Saint more.
And the reader droned from the pulpit
Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Basil's homilies;
Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Guthlac and Bartholomaeus,
Proclaimed the midnight hour.
And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,
And the Abbot bowed his head,
And the flamelets flapped and flickered,
But the Abbot was stark and dead.
Yet still in his pallid fingers
He clutched the golden bowl,
In which, like a pearl dissolving,
Had sunk and dissolved his soul.
But not for this their revels
The jovial monks forbore,
For they cried, 'Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one Saint more!'
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Grail
In the village Bellastrino
On the craggy Tuscan hills,
Lies an old abandoned Abbey
And the Church of San Michele,
Though the village was abandoned
There are two who would not go,
The Abbot, Father Grandier,
The Priest, Don Angelo.
The Abbey on the mountain top,
The Church down in the dell,
They'd fought, these two, for twenty years
Consigning each to Hell!
For in the Church of San Michele
Before the village failed,
Down in the crypt, beneath the floor
They'd found the Holy Grail.
A bowl, fine wrought in pale green glass,
There's no room for debate,
The Templar Knights had left it in
Eleven eighty-eight,
They'd always said they would return,
In fact, they never did,
They went to challenge Saladin
And died, as they had lived!
‘It's mine, ' said Father Grandier,
‘Not so, ' said Angelo,
‘I found it and I'm keeping it,
Here, in the Church below.'
‘It should be in the Abbey, '
Father Grandier opined,
‘Its glory on the mountain top…'
‘Not so! The Grail is mine! '
For years the two had tussled
Had approached the Holy See,
The Pope thought it ridiculous
And said: ‘Don't bother me!
We have two dozen of those things,
A heap of rusty nails,
All from the Cross at Calvary
But these are peasant tales.'
A Cardinal then came to call
And tried to sort them out,
Well practiced in diplomacy
He said: ‘No need to shout!
You have a choir each, ' he said
‘Who visit in the spring,
So hold a competition here,
What better way, than sing? '
‘The better choir shall win the Grail
And keep it for a year,
Up in the Abbey's mountain top,
Or down here, if you dare.
Then sing for it each passing year,
Three judges, understood?
If one should win it three years straight
They keep the Grail for good! '
With many muttered mumblings
And hellfire in their eyes,
The Abbot and the priest said yes,
Dissembled with their lies,
They each set out to cheat their way
To keep that Holy Grail,
The Abbot got to pick each judge
He thought he couldn't fail!
The Abbey won the first two years
And held the Grail on high,
While poor Don Angelo despaired,
The time was coming nigh;
They had to sing for it once more,
He knew that if he failed,
The Abbot would, victorious,
Not let him keep the Grail.
Don Angelo went down to Rome
And brought a tenor back,
His voice like rich red Tuscan wine
To join his choir's attack,
They sang their hearts out on the day
But saw the judges feign,
And shake their heads, Don Angelo
Had nothing left to gain.
The judge stood up to name the prize,
The Abbot had his way,
The tenor stood and sang a note
Not heard since Jesu's day,
He held it long, unwavering
The Grail began to ring,
A long high-pitched reverberance,
The Grail began to sing.
A minute there, without a breath
The tenor held his tone,
And Grandier stood up, alarmed,
Let out a fervid moan,
The Grail sang on, then shattered
Fell in pieces to the floor,
The judge stood up and shook his head,
Then said - ‘The sing's a draw! '
The Abbey holds the base of it,
Up on the mountain top,
All glued together, like some vase
Bought in the Red Cross Shop.
While down there in the little Church
On a thousand Euro tips,
They're coining them a fortune with
The rim that touched his lips!
1 September 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bible in Poetry: 1 Corinthians 9
The Rights of an Apostle:
1Am I not free, an apostle?
Have I not seen Jesus, our Lord?
Aren’t you the fruit of my labor,
For Jesus Christ, my savior, Lord?
2 Although to others not, may be
I am an apostle to you!
You’re seal of my apostleship.
3 This is my one defense to those
Who sit in judgment upon me.
4Don’t we have right to food and drink?
5Do not we have the right to take
A wife believing, that’s with us,
As do the other apostles,
The Lord's brothers and Cephas too?
6 Or only I and Barnabas
Must have to work for a living?
7Who serves as soldier without pay?
Who plants a vineyard on his own
And not ingest its luscious grapes?
Who tends a flock, drink not the milk?
8Do I say this merely from just
A human point of view, tell me?
Does not the Law say just the same?
9For, it is writ in Mosaic Law:
'Do not muzzle an ox while ’tis
Still treading out the grain for you.'
Is it of oxen only that
Then, God is so concerned about?
10 He says this for us, does not He?
Yes, this was written just for us,
Because when plough-man ploughs the field,
And thresher threshes, they do so
With hope, of share in harvest too.
11If we’ve sown seed in you spiritual,
Is it too much if we then reap
A material harvest from you?
12 If others have this right from you,
Shouldn’t we have it, then all the more?
But we didn’t use this right at all.
And on the contrary, we put
Up with all things rather than to
Hinder gospel of Jesus Christ.
13Do you not know that those who work
In temples get their food from them,
And those who serve at altars share
Whatev’r is offered upon them?
14 Similarly, the Lord commands
That those who preach the gospel should
Receive their living from the same.
15 But I haven’t used all of these rights.
And I don’t write this in the hope
That you will do such things for me.
I rather would die than have one
Deprive me of this boast some day.
16Yet, when I preach the gospel then,
I cannot boast: I have to preach.
Woe upon me if I do not!
17 If I do preach voluntarily,
I have reward awaiting me;
If not voluntarily then,
I’m discharging the trust on me.
18 What then is my reward? Just this:
In preaching gospel I offer
It free of charge, and therefore don’t
Make use of my rights doing so.
19 Though I am free, slave of no man,
I make myself a slave to all,
To win the many, possible.
20 To Jews, Jew-like, I too became,
To win over the hearts of Jews.
To those under the law, I turned
Like one under the law like them
(Although I’m not under the law) ,
So as to win those under law.
21To those who did not have the law,
I became like one without law
(Though I’m not free from laws of God
And I am under Christ's tenets) ,
So as to win those without law.
22 To weak persons, I became weak,
To win the weak. I have become
All things to men so that by all
Means possible, I might save some.
23 I do all this for gospel’s sake,
So that I may share its blessings.
24Do you not know that in a race,
Though all runners participate,
One only gets the prize at last?
Run in a way to get the prize.
25 All those who compete in the games
Are given training equally.
They train to get a crown on earth
That will not last for very long;
But we do it to get a crown
That lasts forever and ever.
26 Therefore I don’t run like a man
Who runs quite aimlessly in life;
I don’t fight like a man who beats
The air which he just cannot see.
27 I beat my body to enslave
It, and when I’ve preached to others,
I myself will qualified
To get the prize that’s meant for it.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 8-3-2007
poem by John Celes
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King John And The Abbot Of Canterbury
An ancient story Ile tell you anon
Of a notable prince, that was called King John;
And he ruled England with maine and with might,
For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,
Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye,
How for his house-keeping and high renowne,
They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
An hundred men, the king did heare say,
The abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
'How now, father abbot, I heare if of thee,
Thou keepest a farre better house than mee;
And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.'
'My liege,' quo' the abbot, 'I would it were knowne
I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;
And I trust your grace will doe me no deere,
For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.'
'Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault is highe,
And now for the same thou needest must dye;
For except thou canst answer me questions three,
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
'And first,' quo' the king, 'when I'm in this stead,
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
'Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride the whole world about;
And at the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think.'
'O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:
But if you will give me but three weekes space,
Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.'
'Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
And this is the longest time thou hast to live;
For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.'
Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,
And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,
And he mett his shepheard a going to fold:
'How now, my lord abbot, you welcome home;
What newes do you bring us from good King John?'
'Sad newes, sad newes, shepeard, I must give,
That I must but three days more to live;
For if I do not answer him questions three,
My head will be smitten from my bodie.
'The first is to tell him there in that stead,
With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,
Among all his liege-men so noble of birth,
To within one penny of what he is worth.
'The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
How soone he may ride this whole world about;
And at the third question I must not shrinke,
But tell him there truly what he does thinke.'
'Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,
That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?
Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,
And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
'Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
I am like your lordship, as ever may bee;
And if you will but lend me your gowne,
There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.'
'Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,
With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.'
'Now, welcome, sire abbot,' the king he did say,
'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day:
For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
'And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
With my crown of golde so fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth.'
'For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told:
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,
For I thinke thou art one penny worser than hee.'
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,
'I did not think I had been worth so littel!
- Now secondly tell mee, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride this whole world about.'
'You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
Until the next morning he riseth againe;
And then your grace need not make any doubt
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.'
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
'I did not think it could be gone so soone!
- Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
But tell me here truly what I do thinke.'
'Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry;
You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;
But I'm this poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
That am come to bed pardon for him and for mee.'
The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
'Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!'
'Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
For alacke I can neither write ne reade.'
'Four nobles a weeke, then, I will give thee,
For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;
And tell the old abbot when thou comest home,
Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Jesus Name
In Jesus Name a mighty love
Was sent upon the Earth,
The Holy Spirit from above
Is meant to prove His worth
For Jesus Christ, God's Holy Son,
Was whipped and crucified
So that a perfect work was done
In which we can take pride.
In Christ we boast the whole day long,
Our Saviour and our Lord,
For in His faith each soul is strong,
Triumphant and assured.
Restored beyond our wildest dreams
And all our precious prayers,
We know life isn't what it seems
And that our Father cares...
Lord Jesus tells us, 'I LOVE YOU! '
That's such a wondrous phrase...
He bids us pray for others, too,
For purity and grace...
God bless our lives! God bless our lands!
God heal us day-by-day!
In Jesus Name we raise our hands
And pray and pray and pray...
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Word
Find the word, understand the word,
Depend on the word;
The word is heaven and space, the word the earth,
The word the universe.
The word is in our ears, the word is on our tongues,
The word the idol.
The word is the holy book, the word is harmony,
The word is music.
The word is magic, the word the Guru.
The word is the body, the word is the spirit, the word is being,
The word Not-being.
The word is man, the word is woman,
The Worshipped Great.
The word is the seen and unseen, the word is the existent
And the non-existent.
Know the word, says Kabir,
The word is All-powerful.
Strength in weakness
Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness
A typical Pauline sophism?
A typical Pauline syllogism?
A typical Pauline casuistry?
A typical Pauline homily.
Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness
Paul was disabled, you see
Was he blind? You ask
Was he lame? You ask
Was it a speech impediment?
Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness
Oh! He was strong in spirit
But weak in appearance
He can’t be our leader, they said
He’s an embarrassment
Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness
Paul said: “Yes, I am weak
But God’s strength is made perfect
In my weakness not in my strength
So up the weak and down the strong! (my words!)
Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness
We are all weak in some way
Weak in our words
Weak in our walk
Weak in our talk
Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness
But for God, weak means strong
Kingdom values, Kingdom virtues
Jesus’ values, Jesus’ virtues
My values? my virtues?
Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness
So the lamb not the lion
The humble not the haughty
The lowly not the lofty
The penitent not the proud.
Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness
Let’s value then the weak
And remember they are strong.
If I am proud, then I am wrong
If I am conceited, then I am wrong
Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness
Let’s fill the Church then with the weak
Push in the wheelchairs
Roll in the scooters
Help the handicapped walk in.
Paul’s thorn in the flesh
When I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness
“At even, ere the sun was set
The sick oh Lord, around thee lay
Oh, in what divers pains they met
Oh with what joy they went away
And none oh Lord, have perfect rest
For none are wholly free from sin;
For they who fain would serve thee best
Are conscious most of sin within.
Thy touch has still its ancient power
No word from thee can fruitless fall
Hear in this solemn hour we pray
And in thy mercy heal us all.”
Paul’s thorn in the flesh
For when I am weak,
Then I am strong
Strength in weakness.
poem by James Hart
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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No man understands knavery better than the abbot who has been a monk.
Another Task At Hand
One more task finished my friend, for what God starts He will end.
He will finish so that you will know, God will help you as you grow.
For God is with you in all you do, God is there to see you through.
God will help you through every task, and all you have to do is ask.
Christ has work prepared for you, in the simple daily tasks you do.
Friend, daily as you do your job, you perform your work as for God.
Just do each task to please The Lord, and your effort is not ignored.
And as you work to serve The Lord, you will reap an eternal reward.
My friend, with The Lord any task, can have fruit that will surely last.
As you do the mundane things, God gives your heart songs to sing.
Friend, even when the day is bleak, simply let The Good Lord speak.
God speaks to you in The Word, in Godly wisdom that you've heard.
God’s Spirit creates in you and me, a witness that all others can see,
That in your job throughout the day, Jesus is with you along the way.
When you work at any place, you can point to His Awesome Grace.
A Grace that sustains me and you, throughout every task that we do.
As you grow you become assured, your daily strength is in The Lord.
For The Lord knows what is best, and in every task you are blessed.
With this task now said and done, you can point to God’s Only Son,
Christ, who is with you every day, through every task along the way.
Our Lady of the Sackcloth
There was a Priest at Philae,
Tongue-tied, feeble, and old;
And the daily prayer to the Virgin
Was all the Office he could.
The others were ill-remembered,
Mumbled and hard to hear;
But to Mary, the two-fold Virgin,
Always his voice rang clear.
And the congregation mocked him,
And the weight of the years he bore,
And they sent word to the Bishop
That he should not serve them more.
(Never again at the Offering
When the Bread and the Body are one:
Oh, never the picture of Mary
Watching him serve her Son!)
Kindly and wise was the Bishop.
Unto the Priest said he: -
“Patience till thou art stronger,
And keep meantime with me.
“Patience a little; it may be
The Lord shall loosen thy tongue
And then thou shalt serve at the Offering
As it was when we were young.”
And the Priest obeyed and was silent,
And the Bishop gave him leave
To walk alone in the desert
Where none should see him grieve.
(Never again at the Offering
When the Wine and the Blood are one!
Oh, never the picture of Mary
Watching him honour her Son!)
Saintly and clean was the Bishop,
Ruling himself aright
With prayer and fast in the daytime
And scourge and vigil at night.
Out of his zeal he was minded
To add one penance the more –
A garment of harshest sackcloth
Under the robes he wore.
He gathered the cloth in secret
Lest any should know and praise –
The shears, the palm and the packthread –
And laboured it many ways.
But he had no skill in the making,
And failed and fretted the while;
Till the stood a Woman before him,
Smiling as Mothers smile.
Her feet were burned by the desert –
Like a desert-dweller she trod –
Even the two-fold Virgin,
Spouse and Bearer of God!
She took the shears and the sacking,
The needle and stubborn thread,
She cut, she shaped, and she sewed them,
And, “This shall be blessed,” she said.
She passed in the white hot noontide,
On a wave of the quivering air;
And the Bishop’s eyes were opened,
And he fell on his face in prayer.
But – far from the smouldering censers –
Far from the chanted praise –
Oh, far from the pictures of Mary
That had watched him all his days –
Far in the desert by Philae
The old Priest walked forlorn,
Till he saw in the head of her Riders
A Queen of the Desert-born.
High she swayed on her camel,
Beautiful to behold:
And her beast was belled with silver,
And her veils were spotted with gold!
Low she leaned from her litter –
Soft she spoke in his ear: -
“Nay, I have watched thy sorrow!
Nay, but the end is near!
“For again thou shalt serve at the Offering
And thy tongue shall be loosed in praise,
And again thou shalt sing unto Mary
Who has watched thee all thy days.
“Go in peace to the Bishop,
Carry him word from me –
That the Woman who sewed the sackcloth
Would have him set thee free!”
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Confessions of the Soul part 1
They say inspiration comes from passion. Skill by hard work. Constantly beating on your craft and constant effort. Talent stems from longing. The wish to belong in the greatest of your surroundings.
What we see. What we wish to be.
What we want other to do and how they perceive me.
Talent equals fun. Once the talent is combined with the skill and the inspiration it creates enlinement with what you wish to become. Pursue fun and find your talent. Do it often and search new content.
Then, you are contend.
Work Prepared For Us
The Lord has work for all to do, prepared good works for me and you.
A work that is intended to Glorify, the One who on the cross had died.
Jesus’ work accomplished for all, man’s redemption from Adam’s fall.
Christ’s finished work for all of us, a work in which we place our trust.
And nothing can be added to, His work accomplished for me and you.
For salvation is a gift of Grace, secured when Jesus died in our place.
No righteous works on our part; it was all of Christ right from the start.
Christ’s finished work on that cross, alone is what saves sinners lost.
The work prepared for us you see, is to point others towards Eternity.
As God will use you in many ways, as you live out your earthly days.
God above can use most any skill, as it’s tempered by His loving will,
Pointing other men to Jesus Christ, as The Holy Spirit leads your life.
This work was prepared long before, anybody knew Christ was Lord.
An Eternal Plan by The Lord above, and centered on a cross of Love.
Where Christ Jesus paid the price, by offering Himself as a sacrifice.
For a body was prepared for Him, as the atonement for all of our sin.
Now for us the work to be done, is to lead all men to God’s Only Son.
What better work could there be, than in helping other people to see,
That The Lord Jesus died for us, and in Him we must place our trust,
So when all earthly labors cease, with Him we’ll have Eternal Peace.
(Copyright ©03/2006)
‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’, Rev. & Dear Father
Praise the day when you were born;
Thank the Lord for this great morn;
Sing good hymns and blow your horn;
Pray for parents for God’ altar, you now adorn!
God chose you from the rest of flock,
To be a Shepherd with a frock;
And guide all safely to the Rock,
That quenches thirst of souls that knock!
A priestly life’s closest to God!
You are one most beloved to the Lord;
Live your life as per His Word;
Fight satan with this divine sword!
The love of God will guide you through
The trials, travail that you woo;
The harvest work is tough to do,
But God will find more, when time’s due!
The shepherd runs, trudges and walks;
The Holy Spirit in him talks;
He gives the wisdom, power of staff;
Oh, let wolves come and hyenas laugh!
You have done well so far but still
More things will happen by God’s Will;
May grace of God, your soul afill,
And show the way in vale, uphill!
You have a flock to tend night/ day;
You have to put them in God’s way;
You have to tell what is God’s Say;
You have to sacrifice and pray!
Blessed is the man of God;
He speaks like Jesus, every word;
Like Christ Lord, he shepherds the herd;
All live with God in accord.
Your work can’t be extolled by word;
Your earthly life can be bit hard;
In heaven will be your reward;
This is to you my Birthday Card!
Fondly dedicated to Rev & Dear Father Xavier Claudius,
Parish Priest, ‘Holy Family Church’, Perundurai, Erode, Tamilnadu, India
On his birthday, by families and parishners
Copyright by Dr John Celes 27-10-2010
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Slaved Education
Why
as a black male I feel so underrated even from my own brothas
Maybe it's because we call each other nigga
because we are to ashamed and ignorant to comprehend that they were
Once enslaved by the very word NIGGA
My brotha,
far down your ancestry
Your great great dear aunty watches over the
ashamed.. and disgraced..
the very freedom she earned through all of her pain
I promise you If she could she would lynch you by your own chain
But she won't..
Hurt like stepping on a thumb tack
Failed education because marijuana became your new colon
Blacks dropping out of school to chase a street dream
We all suffer trying to get whips and chains
But I can bet your great aunty suffered from the same thing
Don't be clouded by the smoke from the black
Remember brother you black and the education you need that
In slavery they were afraid to educate a black man
Afraid of what vast secrets can be released
I stand before you today Asking
are we ignorant and enslaved as we were a 100 years ago
Are we bound..
Chained from light like a caged dog on a Sunday night
Why,
why did we give up or dreams,
Dreams of becoming strong educated and free
Education was always the key
Or maybe society advanced so far
and made it seem like we were locked out
But in reality we have become too weak to pick up the key
But why
Why are we so weak?
You tell me, what time, what season and who allowed us colored people to follow knee deep in our own sorrows where we allowed our dreams to be strangled by the root of evil,
Which made BLACK choose to play Russian roulette with their lives
Instead of educating each other, and themselves
poem by BoEdward Lawrence
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Do you have dreams?
Do you have dreams, Well I do
I dream of wonderful things
I dream of things yet to come
I dream of things some may say is dumb
I dream of love not just the word I mean real love
I dream of of a place where there is no war
I dream of a good answer to what we fight for
I dream of floating in the clouds free with no worry
I dream of a president who can just say sorry
I dream of reading a book thats begins with 'what is hate'
I dream of a country, thats completely great
I dream of life beyond the one we live today
I dream of a time when all kids do is learn and play
Ok time to wake up to reality
I was loving my dream now im mad at me for waking up
Life here in the real world can be so crazy
I guess the bigger part of me wishes I was stil a baby
Some of my dreams may come true
I know thats not true and so do you
But I will continue to believe my dream will come true
Because my dream was so wonderful, so I shared it with you
poem by Cheyanne Whien
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Dream, Do You
Do you have dreams, Well I do
I dream of wonderful things
I dream of things yet to come
I dream of things some may say is dumb
I dream of love not just the word I mean real love
I dream of of a place where there is no war
I dream of a good answer to what we fight for
I dream of floating in the clouds free with no worry
I dream of a president who can just say sorry
I dream of reading a book thats begins with 'what is hate'
I dream of a country, thats completely great
I dream of life beyond the one we live today
I dream of a time when all kids do is learn and play
Ok time to wake up to reality
I was loving my dream now im mad at me for waking up
Life here in the real world can be so crazy
I guess the bigger part of me wishes I was stil a baby
Some of my dreams may come true
I know thats not true and so do you
But I will continue to believe my dream will come true
Because my dream was so wonderful, so I shared it with you
LOL
poem by Daniel Chapman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Being A Black Male....in 2012
..... Why as a black male I feel so underrated even from my own brothers.. Maybe it's because we call each other nigga because we are to ashamed and ignorant to comprehend that they were Once enslaved by the very word NIGGA.. My brother, far down your ancestry Your great great dear aunty watches over the ashamed.. and disgraced.. the very freedom she earned through all of her pain I promise you If she could she would lynch you by your own chain But she won't.. Hurt like stepping on a thumb tack Failed education because marijuana became your new colon Blacks dropping out of school to chase a street dream We all suffer trying to get whips and chains But I can bet your great aunty suffered from the same thing Don't be clouded by the smoke from the black Remember brother you black and the education you need that In slavery they were afraid to educate a black man Afraid of what vast secrets can be released I stand before you today Asking are we ignorant and enslaved as we were a 100 years ago Are we bound.. Chained from light like a caged dog on a Sunday night Why, why did we give up or dreams, Dreams of becoming strong educated and free Education was always the key Or maybe society advanced so far and made it seem like we were locked out But in reality we have become too weak to pick up the key But why Why are we so weak? You tell me, what time, what season and who allowed us colored people to follow knee deep in our own sorrows where we allowed our dreams to be strangled by the root of evil, Which made BLACK choose to play Russian roulette with their lives Instead of educating each other, and themselves...
Ron Poetry
poem by Ron Poetry
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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