Salford Parsonage
Lines delivered at housewarming of Salford Parsonage.
Your pastor's fame first got abroad
By his success on Culloden Road ;
He filled the church so that the fold
No longer it the flock would hold.
But soon a larger church did rise,
With fine neat tower points to the skies;
When you o'erwhelmed with ruin dire
Did lose your parsonage by fire.
To his call with generous bounty
You built best parsonage in county,
But some good people in the town
At this idea they might frown.
Unless we made this correction :
The best in a rural section ;
Your pastor he doth vigorous push,
He's not afraid to enter bush.
And 'tis a fact there's very few
With him can stick of timber hew ;
Ready for to superintend,
Or a helping hand to lend.
When bold man's wanted at the front,
You've but to call on Reverend Hunt;
In pulpit he conviction darts,
And points the way to troubled hearts.
But solemn thoughts we won't employ,
As this is all a scene of joy ;
Maids and matrons all charming
Do grace this pleasant house-warming.
Here people come from near and far
To purchase goods at this bazar ;
And all is happiness and glee
At festival of this soiree.
poem by James McIntyre
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Related quotes
Lines on Corner Stone
Impromptu lines delivered at the laying of the corner store
of the church on Culloden road, with Masonic honors.
In this quiet spot, this day of June,
Which will not be forgotten soon,
For when your little church on hill
You overflowingly did fill,
You then resolved there should arise
Church worthy of your enterprise.
You've laid foundation broad and deep,
And showers of blessing may you reap.
Craft of King Hiram and St. John
Have come to lay the corner stone,
At the call of our Grand Master, *
Who, was invited by your pastor.
With Silver trowel all so fair
He laid foundation on the square.
May you be blessed with christian love,
And we all meet in Lodge above.
poem by James McIntyre
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A Murder in Chatham
St. Patrick’s Church was sparsely filled
For Friday morning mass
The seniors getting restless-
the clock read a quarter past.
It wasn’t like the pastor
to leave them waiting there.
Father Hinds was not the kind
to miss the call to prayer.
The usher and the janitor
Together went next door
They both recoiled in horror
at the blood upon the Floor.
The police came with the coroner
To the Parrish rectory door
And saw Jose the Janitor
Try CPR once more.
Chatham is a quiet town
A place when families thrive
And father was the Sheppard
to guide them through their lives.
It didn’t take police much time
to find who did the deed
as Jose’s cell phone records
had placed him at the scene.
The murder knife recovered
The crime confessed at last
The priest had caught him in a lie
about crimes in his past.
The people came together
And filled St. Patrick’s seats
To send the Father to his rest
And give their hearts some peace.
A narrative poem about the murder of Father Ed Hinds, Pastor of St. Patrick's church in Chatham on Thursday 10/21/2009
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Man of God
To a pastor who sermons
Are filled with passion
Your love for people
Is everlasting
I always come to church knowing
That my love for God
Will ever more be overflowing
Coming to church
Is always the best
I really connect
To the pleasant environment
The atmosphere is one
That no one could ever forget
Many people come to hear you
Who also feel the way that I do
Please always continue
To help us all grow
Closier to a
Having a great heart and joyful spirit
poem by Tameeka Smith
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Two weddings and no funeral
The first time I wed
it was in Parrow church
since it was bigger
than the one in Belville.
The church was packed
and I waited
while the golden metallic Mercedes
drove a couple of times
around the church.
My heart skipped a beat
when you entered
dressed in white
and to this day
your beauty still baffles me.
I was at my nerves edge
and so were you,
but we did fine
and I received you
from you dad
and my brother
gave me the ring
with it’s seven diamonds
to me a special thing
for which I sold my motorbike.
We said our words,
kissed and cameras
caught every thing.
The reception was at the Cape Sun
and I remember struggling
to get the garter belt off
and you blushed
when my hands found
your right leg.
Every thing went very well
and that evening
was our only honeymoon
since furniture and rent
had taken the money
that I possed.
The wedding with my second wife
was at Winterton
near the Drakensberg mountains
and early that morning
we drove through from Pretoria
with my white Elantra
and we decided to run off
and wed totally alone.
Outside the parsonage
you walked up and down
in that dusty street,
until I caught up
and gave you a good kiss
which settled your nerves.
At the parsonage the minister
talked to us
before he wedded us in the church
with his wife
playing the organ
and we both were dressed
in leather jackets,
not kids anymore
and past the time
for having a show.
Your eyes glittered with joy
and we drove off for lunch
at the Drakensberg Sun
and we kissed and kissed
as if every thing was new and pure
and we had some champagne
and a great meal.
That honeymoon we spent
at Alpine Heath
and that snowy winter
we were real close
and together explored
the Drakensberg mountain peaks
and all the waterfalls
and then you did love me.
Both these weddings
came to a end,
the first girl
fell in love
with my so called friend
and divorced me.
The second girl
ran away with a lover
when we had to move
out of a sold house
and I divorced her
and still as far
as love goes
my way isn’t clear
and sometimes
I hold a girl dear.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Nutbush City Limit
A CHURCH HOUSE GIN HOUSE
A SCHOOL HOUSE OUT HOUSE
ON HIGHWAY NUMBER NINETEEN
THE PEOPLE KEEP THE CITY CLEAN
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
TWENTY-FIVE WAS THE SPEED LIMIT
MOTORCYCLE NOT ALLOWED IN IT
YOU GO TO THE STORE ON FRIDAY
YOU GO TO CHURCH ON SUNDAY
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
YOU GO TO THE FIELDS ON WEEKDAYS
AND HAVE A PICNIC ON LABOR DAY
YOU GO TO TOWN ON SATURDAY
BUT GO TO THE CHURCH EV'RY SUNDAY
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
NO WHISKEY FOR SALE
YOU CAN'T COP NO BAIL
SALT PORK AND MOLASSES
IS ALL YOU GET IN JAIL
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
LITTLE OLD TOWN IN TENNESSEE
THAT'S CALLED A QUIET LITTLE OLD
COMMUNITY
A ONE-HORSE TOWN YOU HAVE TO
WATCH
WHAT YOU'RE PUTTIN' DOWN IN OLD
NUTBUSH
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Intro
My momma said
"It seemed like yesterday my brother
Said him was gunna leave here
Said he was gunna go and make some money himself"
See my brother wants still to be a rapper
And he can rap real good too
He use to have this book he carried around with him all the time
He use to call it a diary, He use to take it everwhere he went
One day he took it to church when we went to sunday school
And the pastor asked him "Boy, whats that you got in your hand"
And he said this is my diary
And the pastor told him that sinners couldn't have no diary (sinner)
My brother said he was lying, And my brother said if he couldn't have a diary
and he was a sinner, he would just call it a diary of a sinner (diary)
My momma told him don't worry bout what pastor says
My momma told him don't worry bout what nobody says
If that was your diary, that's gunna be your diary
Thats what my mamma said
He said he gonna turn it into an album, And I believe him too
I'm just waiting (One day) one day we gunna turn that radio on ....
[Music fades
song performed by by Petey Pablo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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His True Church
I know many religious people, and one Church with no steeple,
A church that’s built with no walls, built on only believing souls,
Built upon an Eternal Foundation, that being our very Salvation,
Built upon The One Cornerstone, and that is Jesus Christ alone.
Many, who worship in a building, to Truth alone, are unyielding,
Building a church on tradition, God’s Truth, with man’s addition,
Added to the work finished by, Jesus Christ who reigns on high,
Ignoring His words “it is finished”, Grace by many is diminished.
Men making a way to Heaven, not by grace but religious leaven,
Building church in a human way, as they lead many souls astray,
As many souls weekly perch, in the pews of a manmade church,
Relying on their religious activity, to help them work into eternity.
“I will build my Church” He said, that was Christ, who is the Head,
Head of His True Church on earth, filled with souls, by New Birth,
All members being Born Again, into His Church, not one of men,
You’ll find, you no longer search, as a member of God’s Church.
Jesus is the Way, Truth and Life, as Head of the Church of Christ,
And each of us is a living stone, built through faith in Christ alone,
His Church He proceeds to build, to complete as His Father willed,
Leading the only True Church friend, as others shall see in the end.
Abundant Harvest
The following was composed and read at a gathering in the new
Parsonage, Salford, in the fall, 1883.
The farmers are in cheerful mood,
For harvest all it hath been good;
And all the grain was sown this spring
An abundant yield will bring.
And you can scarcely stow away.
The yield of barley, oats and hay ;
Such pasture it is seldom seen,
E'en now it is so fresh and green.
This beauteous color nature decks
While it insures you large milk checques [sic],
And certes you've much cause to praise
For hogs and cattle that you raise.
poem by James McIntyre
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Performance
A courtesy call,
And of the acts of your performance;
But, profaneness has now gone out into the whole world!
And like an attempt by a pastor to rape a member of his church;
But, let the international awareness of man's mistakes be known,
And let us all be ready to change for the better.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Pastor's Letter
At twenty eight he had a ministry,
They said for him it was a prophecy.
Fired up, schooled, oh so brilliant,
Preached with an eloquence defiant.
After a year with the same congregation,
He met the lady that caught his attention.
Confused he was at the sudden attraction
But her eyes, they held his heart's condition.
The devil knew just where to strike him,
For he cunningly knows each man's whim.
Love filled the pastor's heart to the brim,
No one will ever know, or so it seems.
The lady, she was a delicate being,
At forty, her appeal like a magnet did bring
Unaware and naive at the hidden suffering
She was causing her young pastor, that poor thing.
One day it happened unexpectedly.
He was training her on some ministry,
Their eyes locked in gazed intimacy,
His hand held her hand affectionately.
The moment was brief, but truly revealing.
Realizing the gravity of their falling,
Both turned away, for fear of the sinning
With tortured hearts that were then deceiving.
Because she was married she stayed away,
But he longed to see her every Sunday.
So a letter she wrote of feelings disarrayed
And told him she loved him but she loved God's ways.
The church, they formed a misconception,
Made up stories out of proportion.
They blamed the lady for the fatal attraction,
Demanded she be on disciplinary action.
Angered, rebuked, the pastor had been.
Unable to deal and face his own sin.
He wrote her husband to save his own skin
And gave vent to revenge that had lurked within.
Although there was no real adultery,
The unknowing husband heard another story.
For the pastor wrote with much animosity
It was a wonder he stayed in the ministry.
Eventual divorce came to the couple,
The censured lady ostracized by the people.
To save the young pastor's ministry call,
He married a girl he did not love at all.
The truth in his heart he tried to hide,
But his wife had felt what really was inside,
A masquerade of marriage, she always cried,
And the pastor knew to his wife he lied.
They constantly fell into much bickering,
And stumbled the church, marred the worshiping,
The young pastor stepped down from ministering,
Lost in the web of his own evil-doing.
The lady, she stood by her principles,
Lay her case before God in heaven's walls,
She forgave her accusers for her imagined fall,
And now vindicated, she stands tall.
-
Written October 5,2008 Tarlac City Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Nutbush City Limits
(t. turner)
Producer (73): ike turner
Album: nutbush city limits(73),the collected recordings(94)
Producers (91): c. j. mackintosh and dave dorrell
Album: simply the best (91)
Producers(93): chris lord-alge,roger davies and tina turner
Album: whats love got to do with it (93)
A church house gin house
A school house outhouse
On highway number nineteen
The people keep the city clean
They call it nutbush, oh nutbush
They call it nutbush city limits
Twenty-five for speed limit
Motorcicle not allowed in it
You go to store on friday
You go to church on sunday
They call it nutbush, oh nutbush
They call it nutbush city limits
You go to the fields on weekdays
And have a picnic on labor day
You go to town on saturday
And go to church every sunday
They call it nutbush, oh nutbush
They call it nutbush city limits
No whiskey for sale
If you get drunk no bail
Salt pork and molasses
Is all you get in jail
They call it nutbush, oh nutbush
They call it nutbush city limits
A little old town in tennessee
A quiet little community
A one-horse town
You have to watch what youre putting down
In old nutbush, oh nutbush
song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I was reared in the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage.
quote by Countee Cullen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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His Church Can Rise Up
Today The Church can rise above, through God’s power and His Love.
She can rise up to the task at hand, and for The Lord can take a stand.
My friend, even in the darkest nights, we can rise up to greater heights.
For we can rise up in Christ’s Victory, as we march forward to Eternity.
Jesus Christ will build His Church, and build it upon The Savior’s worth.
She’s not built upon an earthly frame, but built upon Her Savior’s Name.
Jesus Christ the very Cornerstone, guides His Church from His Throne.
For His Church, Jesus Christ alone, is her foundation and the capstone.
He’s the Groom and we’re the Bride, and His Church will not be denied.
He’s creating a Holy Priesthood friend, of whose service will never end.
We my friends are the living stones, bought and placed by Christ alone,
We’re being built into a spiritual house, by the Church’s Eternal Spouse.
Even though darkened forces rail, the gates of Hades shall not prevail.
Christ’s Victory we can proclaim, through the power of His Holy Name.
We need to rise up above the night, and lift up high Christ’s Holy Light.
We can rise above every situation, and point the world to His salvation.
Very soon The Church will surly rise, to meet The Savior up in the skies,
Dear friend Satan is the defeated foe, and this we need to let men know.
So we need to rise up and tell all men, that Satan is the one condemned,
And when they join The Church of Christ, they too shall gain Eternal Life.
(Copyright ©04/2006)
The earlier practice of the Church had been more or less to employ in worship under the presidency of the pastor or pastors, the gifts of the congregation.
quote by Robert Rainy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The president of the branch in Atlanta was a pastor of a church, the Reverend Sam Williams, a wonderful guy. He was middle-class and fairly militant for the time and place.
quote by Julian Bond
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I had said to some pastor that I was having thoughts, and the church turned on me. They went to my mom and said, So sorry about your son.
quote by Jai Rodriguez
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
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This morning six thirty we drive past a church
This morning six thirty
we drive past a church
where a lot of cars are already parked.
While we pass the church
I wonder about what
the people are praying
and I think that they
must truly be Christians.
The church has a neat yard
and looks out of place
in the inner city where everything dilapidates
and I hear a song softly
that people
is busy singing
and then I know that Gods amazing grace
goes through every thing and every place.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sex & The Church
Though the idea of compassion
Is said to be
The union of christ
And his bride, the christian
Its all very puzzling
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
All the great mystic religions
Put strong emphasis, on
Redeame this spiritual qualities
Of sex of sex
Chrstianity
Has been pretty modern
About sex
Of sex of sex of sex of sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
I think there is a union
Between the flesh and the spirit
Its sex and the church
Sex and the church
All religions mother
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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 farther longing and farther 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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