The Legend of St. Mark
The day is closing dark and cold,
With roaring blast and sleety showers;
And through the dusk the lilacs wear
The bloom of snow, instead of flowers.
I turn me from the gloom without,
To ponder o'er a tale of old;
A legend of the age of Faith,
By dreaming monk or abbess told.
On Tintoretto's canvas lives
That fancy of a loving heart,
In graceful lines and shapes of power,
And hues immortal as his art.
In Provence (so the story runs)
There lived a lord, to whom, as slave,
A peasant-boy of tender years
The chance of trade or conquest gave.
Forth-looking from the castle tower,
Beyond the hills with almonds dark,
The straining eye could scarce discern
The chapel of the good St. Mark.
And there, when bitter word or fare
The service of the youth repaid,
By stealth, before that holy shrine,
For grace to bear his wrong, he prayed.
The steed stamped at the castle gate,
The boar-hunt sounded on the hill;
Why stayed the Baron from the chase,
With looks so stern, and words so ill?
'Go, bind yon slave! and let him learn,
By scath of fire and strain of cord,
How ill they speed who give dead saints
The homage due their living lord!'
They bound him on the fearful rack,
When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark,
He saw the light of shining robes,
And knew the face of good St. Mark.
Then sank the iron rack apart,
The cords released their cruel clasp,
The pincers, with their teeth of fire,
Fell broken from the torturer's grasp.
And lo! before the Youth and Saint,
Barred door and wall of stone gave way;
And up from bondage and the night
They passed to freedom and the day!
O dreaming monk! thy tale is true;
O painter! true thy pencil's art;
in tones of hope and prophecy,
Ye whisper to my listening heart!
Unheard no burdened heart's appeal
Moans up to God's inclining ear;
Unheeded by his tender eye,
Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear.
For still the Lord alone is God
The pomp and power of tyrant man
Are scattered at his lightest breath,
Like chaff before the winnower's fan.
Not always shall the slave uplift
His heavy hands to Heaven in vain.
God's angel, like the good St. Mark,
Comes shining down to break his chain!
O weary ones! ye may not see
Your helpers in their downward flight;
Nor hear the sound of silver wings
Slow beating through the hush of night!
But not the less gray Dothan shone,
With sunbright watchers bending low,
That Fear's dim eye beheld alone
The spear-heads of the Syrian foe.
There are, who, like the Seer of old,
Can see the helpers God has sent,
And how life's rugged mountain-side
Is white with many an angel tent!
They hear the heralds whom our Lord
Sends down his pathway to prepare;
And light, from others hidden, shines
On their high place of faith and prayer.
Let such, for earth's despairing ones,
Hopeless, yet longing to be free,
Breathe once again the Prophet's prayer
'Lord, ope their eyes, that they may see!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Related quotes
Heaven Lost An Angel
He stepped away from heaven's gate,
Away from the loving arms of our lord and saviour,
He fell down into the pits of hate,
As he fell down from heaven he lost his way,
Through the dark and stormy clouds,
He knew he was so far away,
Yes heaven lost an angel,
In the pale moonlight,
Heaven lost an angel,
As he wandered earth with fright,
His wings were hurt and broken,
His halo was loosing it's glow,
He looked to the sky wandering,
As wind began to blow,
Rain came down hard and heavy,
The lord our saviour felt and heard his cry,
He reached down to earth to pick up his angel,
In the lord's hands he would lie,
Safe in the lord's arms again,
As the angel wipped away a tear,
For heaven gained back their angel,
Now he will have no fear.
poem by Melissa Gegato
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Lord Of The Dance
I am the Lord of the dance
I dance beneath the sky
On a clear night
I can see the stars
Shining above the sky
I am the Lord of the dance
God rewards me everyday
I dance for my Lord
The sky is clear
The moon is shining in the sky
This is a beautiful fall night
The peace fills my mind and my heart
I feel at peace
It is good to know that God cares
I want to serve my lord with all my heart
I am God’s Child
I am gifted
God brings peace into my heart
I am the lord of the dance
He gave me peace
He gave me life
He gave me health
He gave me a spirit
He gave me a mind
He gave me a body
He gave me hope
He open’s my ear
And let me hear the sound of silence
He gave me eyes
For me to see more of him
I trust the Lord with all my heart
I am the Lord of the dance
I was born a Christian
And I will die as a Christian
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Of The Light
Sometimes in this life I need to be, a quiet light for all to see,
Not flickering of words to hear, but, that light with Jesus near,
To be for God one quiet flame, by the power of Jesus’ Name,
A light for God in any place; maintained in His love and grace.
When to dark places, I must go; it is His Light I need to show,
Indeed the light of Jesus Christ, shown to a very troubled life,
When even in the darkest hour, His Light is the ultimate power,
To help a darkened heart to see, what one life in Christ can be.
If the time seems not so right, what may be needed is the light,
The Light of God’s Holy Truth, for others, as we’re living proof,
Of the power of, God’s Word, from truths that they have heard,
From truths you have expressed, when at this time light is best.
When Eternal Truths we proclaim, in the Power of God’s Name,
In those times, somewhat dark, The Lord’s Light leaves a mark,
Deep upon the heart, of a man, this, as we live out God’s Plan,
To be the Lord’s salt and light, while in this world dark as night.
When God’s Word, we do heed, sometimes light is all we need,
This as God’s Holy Spirit moves, upon a soul that He reproves,
Moving upon that soul’s heart, with God’s Truth He shall impart,
Through the light within our life, as we truly live for Jesus Christ.
(Copyright ©12/2011)
St.Gregory's Guest
A TALE for Roman guides to tell
To careless, sight-worn travellers still,
Who pause beside the narrow cell
Of Gregory on the Caelian Hill.
One day before the monk's door came
A beggar, stretching empty palms,
Fainting and fast-sick, in the name
Of the Most Holy asking alms.
And the monk answered, 'All I have
In this poor cell of mine I give,
The silver cup my mother gave;
In Christ's name take thou it, and live.'
Years passed; and, called at last to bear
The pastoral crook and keys of Rome,
The poor monk, in Saint Peter's chair,
Sat the crowned lord of Christendom.
'Prepare a feast,' Saint Gregory cried,
'And let twelve beggars sit thereat.'
The beggars came, and one beside,
An unknown stranger, with them sat.
'I asked thee not,' the Pontiff spake,
'O stranger; but if need be thine,
I bid thee welcome, for the sake
Of Him who is thy Lord and mine.'
A grave, calm face the stranger raised,
Like His who on Gennesaret trod,
Or His on whom the Chaldeans gazed,
Whose form was as the Son of God.
'Know'st thou,' he said, 'thy gift of old?'
And in the hand he lifted up
The Pontiff marvelled to behold
Once more his mother's silver cup.
'Thy prayers and alms have risen, and bloom
Sweetly among the flowers of heaven.
I am The Wonderful, through whom
Whate'er thou askest shall be given.'
He spake and vanished. Gregory fell
With his twelve guests in mute accord
Prone on their faces, knowing well
Their eyes of flesh had seen the Lord.
The old-time legend is not vain;
Nor vain thy art, Verona's Paul,
Telling it o'er and o'er again
On gray Vicenza's frescoed wall.
Still wheresoever pity shares
Its bread with sorrow, want, and sin,
And love the beggar's feast prepares,
The uninvited Guest comes in.
Unheard, because our ears are dull,
Unseen, because our eyes are dim,
He walks our earth, The Wonderful,
And all good deeds are done to Him.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Bible in Poetry: Philemon 1
Paul, a prisoner of Jesus Christ,
And his brother, Timothy writes:
To Philemon, friend and worker,
To Apphia, beloved sister,
To Archippus, fellow soldier,
To the church that meets in your home,
‘From God, our Father, grace and peace,
And from Jesus Lord, be with you.’
Thanksgiving and Prayer:
I thank my God always brothers,
And remember you in prayers,
Because about your faith, I hear,
In Jesus Lord and saints so dear.
I exhort you to share your faith,
And understand all things in Christ;
Your love has given me great joy,
And refreshed hearts of saints, ahoy!
Paul’s Plea for Onesimus:
Although in Christ, I can be bold,
And order you to do as told,
Christ Jesus’ prisoner, now man old,
Paul, I appeal to you with love,
For Onesimus, my son dear,
While I in chains, he came so near;
Although, he was useless to you,
But now, he is useful to both.
I’m sending him, who is my heart,
Although I wish he didn’t depart,
And take your place in helping me,
While I’m in chains for the Gospel.
Yet, I don’t want to do something,
Without your consent on that thing,
So that, the favor that you do
Is spontaneous and from heart true.
May be, he was away from you,
So that, you have him back for good,
Not as a slave but as brother.
He is so dear to me and you,
Both as a man and in the Lord.
Like how you consider me as
A partner, welcome him like me;
If he has done anything wrong,
Or owes you then, charge it to me.
I’ll pay it back without delay;
Refresh my heart in Christ this day.
I know you will obey my words,
And that, you’ll do more than I ask.
Prepare a guest-room for me for,
I hope to be restored to you,
In answer to your prayers all.
Fellow in Jesus, Epaphras;
Aristarchus, Mark, Luke, Demas-
My fellow-workers, send greetings!
The grace of Lord Christ Jesus be
With your spirit in ministry.
poem by John Celes
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Mark My Words!
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
To his fare for the night,
'Us Christians know what lies ahead
And we will steer you right.'
Then he explained his earnest faith
In Jesus Christ the Lord
And said that He was strong to save,
That's why He is adored.
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
'Christ is the light of men!
Lord Jesus Christ rose from the dead!
He's coming back again!
The Holy Bible's prophecies
Are meant to put us straight.
They prove Christ is the Prince of Peace
For whom us Christians wait.'
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
'Lord Jesus died for you!
Upon that Cross His Blood was shed
To prove God's love is true.
For all our sins He took the blame,
Then took our sins away.
That's why us Christians praise His Name!
That's why us Christians pray.'
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
To his fare for the night,
'Us Christians must be Spirit-led,
Serve God with all our might! '
The passenger had understood.
He was a Christian, too.
His heart was warmed, 'Our God is good!
Good night and God bless you! '
Denis Martindale, copyright, August 2011.
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital and
via the Watch Now webpage on the
Revelation TV website:
revelationtv-dot-com
: : : : : : : : : :
This poem was also uploaded with
the title, You Mark My Words! and this
has its own shortcut for that page:
tinyurl-dot-com/you-mark-my-words
The poem was written for Mark the Cabbie and
it was read out to him on the Revelation TV
show Thank God For Fridays,20th of July 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Mark My Words!
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
To his fare for the night,
'Us Christians know what lies ahead
And we will steer you right.'
Then he explained his earnest faith
In Jesus Christ the Lord
And said that He was strong to save,
That's why He is adored.
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
'Christ is the light of men!
Lord Jesus Christ rose from the dead!
He's coming back again!
The Holy Bible's prophecies
Are meant to put us straight.
They prove Christ is the Prince of Peace
For whom us Christians wait.'
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
'Lord Jesus died for you!
Upon that Cross His Blood was shed
To prove God's love is true.
For all our sins He took the blame,
Then took our sins away.
That's why us Christians praise His Name!
That's why us Christians pray.'
'You mark my words, ' the Cabbie said,
To his fare for the night,
'Us Christians must be Spirit-led,
Serve God with all our might! '
The passenger had understood.
He was a Christian, too.
His heart was warmed, 'Our God is good!
Good night and God bless you! '
Denis Martindale, copyright, August 2011.
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital and
via the Watch Now webpage on the
Revelation TV website:
revelationtv-dot-com
: : : : : : : : : :
This poem was also uploaded with
the title, You Mark My Words! and this
has its own shortcut for that page:
tinyurl-dot-com/mark-my-words-poem
The poem was written for Mark the Cabbie and
it was read out to him on the Revelation TV
show Thank God For Fridays,20th of July 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Paean
NOW, joy and thanks forevermore!
The dreary night has wellnigh passed,
The slumbers of the North are o'er,
The Giant stands erect at last!
More than we hoped in that dark time
When, faint with watching, few and worn,
We saw no welcome day-star climb
The cold gray pathway of the morn!
O weary hours! O night of years!
What storms our darkling pathway swept,
Where, beating back our thronging fears,
By Faith alone our march we kept.
How jeered the scoffing crowd behind,
How mocked before the tyrant train,
As, one by one, the true and kind
Fell fainting in our path of pain!
They died, their brave hearts breaking slow,
But, self-forgetful to the last,
In words of cheer and bugle blow
Their breath upon the darkness passed.
A mighty host, on either hand,
Stood waiting for the dawn of day
To crush like reeds our feeble band;
The morn has come, and where are they?
Troop after troop their line forsakes;
With peace-white banners waving free,
And from our own the glad shout breaks,
Of Freedom and Fraternity!
Like mist before the growing light,
The hostile cohorts melt away;
Our frowning foemen of the night
Are brothers at the dawn of day!
As unto these repentant ones
We open wide our toil-worn ranks,
Along our line a murmur runs
Of song, and praise, and grateful thanks.
Sound for the onset! Blast on blast!
Till Slavery's minious cower and quail;
One charge of fire shall drive them fast
Like chaff before our Northern gale!
O prisoners in your house of pain
Dumb, toiling millions, bound and sold,
Look! stretched o'er Southern vale and plain,
The Lord's delivering hand behold!
Above the tyrant's pride of power,
His iron gates and guarded wall,
The bolts which shattered Shinar's tower
Hang, smoking, for a fiercer fall.
Awake! awake! my Fatherland!
It is thy Northern light that shines;
This stirring march of Freedom's band
The storm-song of thy mountain pines.
Wake, dwellers where the day expires!
And hear, in winds that sweep your lakes
And fan your prairies' roaring fires,
The signal-call that Freedom makes!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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In Memoriam
“He asked life of thee, and thou gavest him a long life, even for ever and ever.”
Life—length of days—the time to work and strive
In his Lord's vineyard; to bring heavenly light
Into the drear, dark places of the earth,
And make them fair and fruitful in His sight.
Life—it seem'd all so bright and beautiful once!
It lay spread out before his kindling eyes,
A land of sunny hills, in white mist veil'd,
Of sweet green valleys under summer skies.
Such tender light and tender shadows there!
No dazzling blaze, no savage blots of gloom,
No keen-cut outline of the barren cliff,
No glaring waste,—but all one gentle bloom
Of happy, innocent hope,—a morning tint
Of pearly grey and gold, with just a shade
Of bright cloud-colour, giving life to it,—
He saw not then the havoc death had made.
But soon the white mist melted in the heat
Of noonday, and the wasted fields lay bare—
Vineyard of Eden—like a bright face, scarred
With sin and shame and weariness and care.
And his vague aspiration took a shape.
“Grant me, dear Lord, if it seem good to Thee,
To labour here, with manhood's utter strength,—
O Lord, good Lord, intrust this work to me!
“Let me have time to toil—a long, long day—
To dig and delve and root out wasteful weeds,
To cut down briars and thorns, and help to plough
Furrows where angels may sow heavenly seeds.
“Give me to foster, with my faith and love,
Frail, early flowers, that fear to droop and fade!
Father, I will not shrink for bleeding hands,
For heat nor cold—I do not feel afraid!”
His voice was heard—his will accepted. God
Gave deep and true fulfilment to his prayer,—
Life—life eternal, which should nevermore
The taint of death, or sin, or sorrow bear!
Oh pray, ye blind ones, as the beggar pray'd
When He of Nazareth pass'd by! Oh pray
With simple faith and worship,—fear ye not
God's gracious ear will deafly turn away.
Ye know He bids us to tell out our wants,
Knowing them all; give up to Him your will,
And trust Him—trust Him. In his wondrous love
He deigns the lowliest longing to fulfil.
Ay, and with that fulfilment which we ne'er
Shall grasp or fathom—till we come to see
Our strange, mysterious human life unveil'd
In the clear daylight of eternity.
The beggar ask'd for sight—Christ answer'd him,
For his faith's sake, and gave him sight indeed.
Just so his silent hands and darken'd eyes
Were lifted once, for grace of “life” to plead.
And God fulfilled his prayer as utterly!
He gave him life—the life of saints above,
Beyond all earthly dreaming sweet and glad—
An endless life in His eternal love!
poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Mantle Of St. John De Matha. A Legend Of
A STRONG and mighty Angel,
Calm, terrible, and bright,
The cross in blended red and blue
Upon his mantle white!
Two captives by him kneeling,
Each on his broken chain,
Sang praise to God who raiseth
The dead to life again!
Dropping his cross-wrought mantle,
'Wear this,' the Angel said;
'Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign, —
The white, the blue, and red.'
Then rose up John de Matha
In the strength the Lord Christ gave,
And begged through all the land of France
The ransom of the slave.
The gates of tower and castle
Before him open flew,
The drawbridge at his coming fell,
The door-bolt backward drew.
For all men owned his errand,
And paid his righteous tax;
And the hearts of lord and peasant
Were in his hands as wax.
At last, outbound from Tunis,
His bark her anchor weighed,
Freighted with seven-score Christian souls
Whose ransom he had paid.
But, torn by Paynim hatred,
Her sails in tatters hung;
And on the wild waves, rudderless,
A shattered hulk she swung.
'God save us!' cried the captain,
'For naught can man avail;
Oh, woe betide the ship that lacks
Her rudder and her sail!
'Behind us are the Moormen;
At sea we sink or strand:
There's death upon the water,
There's death upon the land!'
Then up spake John de Matha:
'God's errands never fail!
Take thou the mantle which I wear,
And make of it a sail.'
They raised the cross-wrought mantle,
The blue, the white, the red;
And straight before the wind off-shore
The ship of Freedom sped.
'God help us!' cried the seamen,
'For vain is mortal skill:
The good ship on a stormy sea
Is drifting at its will.'
Then up spake John de Matha:
'My mariners, never fear!
The Lord whose breath has filled her sail
May well our vessel steer!'
So on through storm and darkness
They drove for weary hours;
And lo! the third gray morning shone
On Ostia's friendly towers.
And on the walls the watchers
The ship of mercy knew, —
They knew far off its holy cross,
The red, the white, and blue.
And the bells in all the steeples
Rang out in glad accord,
To welcome home to Christian soil
The ransomed of the Lord.
So runs the ancient legend
By bard and painter told;
And lo! the cycle rounds again,
The new is as the old!
With rudder foully broken,
And sails by traitors torn,
Our country on a midnight sea
Is waiting for the morn.
Before her, nameless terror;
Behind, the pirate foe;
The clouds are black above her,
The sea is white below.
The hope of all who suffer,
The dread of all who wrong,
She drifts in darkness and in storm,
How long, O Lord! how long?
But courage, O my mariners!
Ye shall not suffer wreck,
While up to God the freedman's prayers
Are rising from your deck.
Is not your sail the banner
Which God hath blest anew,
The mantle that De Matha wore,
The red, the white, the blue?
Its hues are all of heaven, —
The red of sunset's dye,
The whiteness of the moon-lit cloud,
The blue of morning's sky.
Wait cheerily, then, O mariners,
For daylight and for land;
The breath of God is in your sail,
Your rudder is His hand.
Sail on, sail on, deep-freighted
With blessings and with hopes;
The saints of old with shadowy hands
Are pulling at your ropes.
Behind ye holy martyrs
Uplift the palm and crown;
Before ye unborn ages send
Their benedictions down.
Take heart from John de Matha! —
God's errands never fail!
Sweep on through storm and darkness,
The thunder and the hail!
Sail on! The morning cometh,
The port ye yet shall win;
And all the bells of God shall ring
The good ship bravely in!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Lord
Oh Lord
Give us strength
For the burdens that we bear.
The false smiles that we wear,
To keep our heads up high.
Still looking to the sky.
When I'm crushed,
Skin and bone.
The world is hushed.
I'm all alone.
In the alley
On my knees.
Oh Lord
Whisper to me
Please.
Oh Lord
I have done so much wrong.
I have sang my last song.
Can you send
Your Holy Spirit, man.
demons surround me.
And friends all ran.
Only you
Can soften up
This heart of stone.
And I
Could never reach you on the phone.
Oh Lord
Give me the guts
To carry on.
We all stand in the dark.
Where your light once shone.
The devil's on my shoulder,
My clutching hands are bleeding.
The world is getting colder.
It's your healing touch I'm needing.
Oh Lord
Heaven help us all.
Bang Bang
The mighty fall.
We skipped,
And now we crawl.
And weep.
Take us home Lord,
When we awaken
From this sleep.
poem by Kevin East
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Genesis BK VI
(ll. 246-260) The Holy Lord, All-wielding God, with mighty hand
had wrought ten angel-orders in whom He trusted well, that they
would do Him service, and work His will. Therefore God gave them
reason, with His own hands shaped them, and established them in
bliss. But one He made so great and strong of heart, He let him
wield such power in heaven next unto God, so radiant-hued He
wrought him, so fair his form in heaven which God had given, that
he was like unto the shining stars. He should have sung his
Maker's praise, and prized his bliss in heaven. He should have
thanked his Lord for the great boon He showered on him in the
heavenly light, and let him long enjoy. But he turned him to a
worse thing, and strove to stir up strife against the Highest
Lord of heaven, who sitteth on the throne of glory.
(ll. 261-276) Dear was he to our Lord. Nor could it long be hid
from God that pride was growing in His angel's heart. He set
himself against his Leader, scoffed at God with boasting, and
would not serve Him. He said his form was beautiful and bright,
gleaming and fair of hue. Nor could he find it in his heart to
serve the Lord God, or be subject to Him. It seemed to him that
he had greater strength and larger following than Holy God might
have. Many words the angel spake in his presumption. By his own
power alone he thought to build a stronger throne and mightier in
heaven. He said his heart was urging him to toil, to build a
stately palace in the north and west. He said he doubted in his
heart if he would still be subject unto God:
(ll. 277-291) "Why should I slave?" quoth he. "I need not serve a
master. My hands are strong to work full many a wonder. Power
enough have I to rear a goodlier throne, a higher in the heavens.
Why should I fawn for His favour, or yield Him such submission?
I may be God as well as He! Brave comrades stand about me;
stout-hearted heroes who will not fail me in the fray. These
valiant souls have chosen me their lord. With such peers one may
ponder counsel, and gain a following. Devoted are these friends
and faithful-hearted; and I may be their lord and rule this
realm. It seemeth no wise right to me that I should cringe a
whit to God for any good. I will not serve Him longer."
(ll. 292-298) Now when God had heard all this, how His angel was
beginning to make presumptuous head against his Leader, speaking
rash words of insolence against his Lord, needs must he make
atonement for that deed, endure the woe of strife, and bear his
punishment, most grievous of all deaths. And so doth every man
who wickedly thinketh to strive with God, the Lord of might.
(ll. 299-319) Then Almighty God, High Lord of heaven, was filled
with wrath, and hurled him from his lofty throne. He had gained
his Master's hate, and lost His favour. God's heart was hardened
against him. Wherefore he needs must sink into the pit of
torment because he strove against the Lord of heaven. He
banished him from grace and cast him into hell, into the deep
abyss where he became a devil. The Fiend and all his followers
fell from heaven; three nights and days the angels fell from
heaven into hell. God changed them all to devils. Because they
heeded not His deed and word, therefore Almighty God hurled them
into darkness, deep under earth, crushed them and set them in the
mirk of hell. There through the never-ending watches of the
night the fiends endure an unremitting fire. Then at the dawn
cometh an east wind, and bitter frost, ever a blast of fire or
storm of frost. And each must have his share of suffering
wrought for his punishment. Their world was changed when God
filled full the pit of hell with His foes!
(ll. 320-322) But the angels who kept their faith with God dwelt
in the heights of heaven.
Love Is A Window Starlit Bright
Love is a window starlit bright
And you are the moon
That encompasses its light
Thriving like a winters flower
Visited in the mystical—night?
You are a forest of melting snow
And all that's pure and white
'You are that lover's song in echo'
Of what God made truly right.
Lord, oh lord
She kisses me still...
Prolonging each cold
-winters chill...
The thaw of passing...
Lord, oh lord
Its then she whispers!
Asks for the winds desires
In mine, burning...
Crackling... Ilex ears
Touch me not—just
In the next world:
And I'll like a feather rise
Like an attending angel
I'll kiss away all your tears
All your cries...
Lord, oh lord
Its then she whispers!
As and when the winter raps
Its winter cloak
Around your heart
I will be there to warm
And shelter you!
From the cold and the dark
As sure as the fire
That burns eternal in your heart.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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William Forster
The years are many since his hand
Was laid upon my head,
Too weak and young to understand
The serious words he said.
Yet often now the good man's look
Before me seems to swim,
As if some inward feeling took
The outward guise of him.
As if, in passion's heated war,
Or near temptation's charm,
Through him the low-voiced monitor
Forewarned me of the harm.
Stranger and pilgrim! from that day
Of meeting, first and last,
Wherever Duty's pathway lay,
His reverent steps have passed.
The poor to feed, the lost to seek,
To proffer life to death,
Hope to the erring,--to the weak
The strength of his own faith.
To plead the captive's right; remove
The sting of hate from Law;
And soften in the fire of love
The hardened steel of War.
He walked the dark world, in the mild,
Still guidance of the Light;
In tearful tenderness a child,
A strong man in the right.
From what great perils, on his way,
He found, in prayer, release;
Through what abysmal shadows lay
His pathway unto peace,
God knoweth : we could only see
The tranquil strength he gained;
The bondage lost in liberty,
The fear in love unfeigned.
And I,--my youthful fancies grown
The habit of the man,
Whose field of life by angels sown
The wilding vines o'erran,--
Low bowed in silent gratitude,
My manhood's heart enjoys
That reverence for the pure and good
Which blessed the dreaming boy's.
Still shines the light of holy lives
Like star-beams over doubt;
Each sainted memory, Christlike, drives
Some dark possession out.
O friend! O brother I not in vain
Thy life so calm and true,
The silver dropping of the rain,
The fall of summer dew!
How many burdened hearts have prayed
Their lives like thine might be
But more shall pray henceforth for aid
To lay them down like thee.
With weary hand, yet steadfast will,
In old age as in youth,
Thy Master found thee sowing still
The good seed of His truth.
As on thy task-field closed the day
In golden-skied decline,
His angel met thee on the way,
And lent his arm to thine.
Thy latest care for man,--thy last
Of earthly thought a prayer,--
Oh, who thy mantle, backward cast,
Is worthy now to wear?
Methinks the mound which marks thy bed
Might bless our land and save,
As rose, of old, to life the dead
Who touched the prophet's grave
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Cassandra
O Hymen king.
Hymen, O Hymen king,
what bitter thing is this?
what shaft, tearing my heart?
what scar, what light, what fire
searing my eye-balls and my eyes with flame?
nameless, O spoken name,
king, lord, speak blameless Hymen.
Why do you blind my eyes?
why do you dart and pulse
till all the dark is home,
then find my soul
and ruthless draw it back?
scaling the scaleless,
opening the dark?
speak, nameless, power and might;
when will you leave me quite?
when will you break my wings
or leave them utterly free
to scale heaven endlessly?
A bitter, broken thing,
my heart, O Hymen lord,
yet neither drought nor sword
baffles men quite,
why must they feign to fear
my virgin glance?
feigned utterly or real
why do they shrink?
my trance frightens them,
breaks the dance,
empties the market-place;
if I but pass they fall
back, frantically;
must always people mock?
unless they shrink and reel
as in the temple
at your uttered will.
O Hymen king,
lord, greatest, power, might,
look for my face is dark,
burnt with your light,
your fire, O Hymen lord;
is there none left
can equal me
in ecstasy, desire?
is there none left
can bear with me
the kiss of your white fire?
is there not one,
Phrygian or frenzied Greek,
poet, song-swept, or bard,
one meet to take from me
this bitter power of song,
one fit to speak, Hymen,
your praises, lord?
May I not wed
as you have wed?
may it not break, beauty,
from out my hands, my head, my feet?
may Love not lie beside me
till his heat
burn me to ash?
may he not comfort me, then,
spent of all that fire and heat,
still, ashen-white and cool
as the wet laurels,
white, before your feet
step on the mountain-slope,
before your fiery hand
lift up the mantle
covering flower and land,
as a man lifts,
O Hymen, from his bride,
(cowering with woman eyes,) the veil?
O Hymen lord, be kind.
poem by Hilda Doolittle
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Fishers of Men
I had a dream, a varied dream:
Before my ravished sight
The city of my Lord arose,
With all its love and light.
The music of a myriad harps
Flowed out with sweet accord;
And saints were casting down their crowns
In homage to our Lord.
My heart leaped up with untold joy;
Life's toil and pain were o'er;
My weary feet at last had found
The bright and restful shore.
Just as I reached the gates of light,
Ready to enter in,
From earth arose a fearful cry
Of sorrow and of sin.
I turned, and saw behind me surge
A wild and stormy sea;
And drowning men were reaching out
Imploring hands to me.
And ev'ry lip was blanched with dread
And moaning for relief;
The music of the golden harps
Grew fainter for their grief.
Let me return, I quickly said,
Close to the pearly gate;
My work is with these wretched ones,
So wrecked and desolate.
An angel smiled and gently said:
This is the gate of life,
Wilt thou return to earth's sad scenes,
Its weariness and strife,
To comfort hearts that sigh and break,
To dry the falling tear,
Wilt thou forego the music sweet
Entrancing now thy ear?
I must return, I firmly said,
The strugglers in that sea
Shall not reach out beseeching hands
In vain for help to me.
I turned to go; but as I turned
The gloomy sea grew bright,
And from my heart there seemed to flow
Ten thousand cords of light.
And sin-wrecked men, with eager hands,
Did grasp each golden cord;
And with my heart I drew them on
To see my gracious Lord.
Again I stood beside the gate.
My heart was glad and free;
For with me stood a rescued throng
The Lord had given me.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Ghost of Churches Past
The Ghost of Churches Past
A stately edifice it stands alone
For sale to any buyer.
The patrons of this church
Have fled to ground much higher.
They loved their God
And true they were
They sought out higher ground
For in a cold stone building
Their God they never found.
They drank the spirit willingly
They prayed the sacred words
But when the cry from heaven came
The elders never heard.
The charlatans of prayer
They steal our weary souls
With promises of salvation.
These swindlers of
mans hope and fear
Will never save our nation.
They tuck our weary hearts into
that dark and dreary night.
With promises of heaven.
We shan't give up the fight.
And every measure to a man
and to a woman praying
The children cry, the old ones die,
and none of them are saying.
What's in their hearts, its no mistake
For the God within is true.
And if we follow our heart strings
We'll give the Lord His due.
Will the great deception,
the cyanide of our own blind
faith release us from this world
and its cruel claim to fame?
And whose to say
we would know our Lord
if he finally came.
Never! Sings the birds sweet song,
pure joy this Easter morn.
From the bondage of this ruse
we finally will be torn.
Only the light of understanding
will lift the dark veil of this
dreary abode and roll the
stone from that sepulcher
of our dark dream. For what
we thought and what we know
is never what it seemed.
No longer will we worship
in a stone temple to a living God
who would rather be
remembered midst the
misty morning fog.
Beneath the oracles
of His holy presence
where the Redwoods
kiss the Sea.
I'll find my God,
my fellow man
and finally will I see.
That God is here
and so am I.
No need to say
much more.
The open fount
of wisdom's love
has been an open door.
poem by Lynne FincherSpringarden
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Gethsemane Miracle!
Alone He walked for private prayer, disciples holding fast,
Christ's countenance that of despair, His hour had come at last.
Gethsemane was quiet now, as twilight there encroached,
As Christ's head bore a bloodied brow, temptation thus approached.
And there were whispers in His mind that matched His fearful heart,
Perhaps the Cross of Christ to find, perhaps chance to depart.
Was there still hope? Or some way out? Was there escape for Him?
Or was there now no single doubt, God's cup filled to the brim?
Lord Jesus prayed as trembling hands conveyed His weakened state,
Obedience to God's commands or some new twist of fate?
Three times to pray the cup might pass, in case God chose this path,
Three times and each with mercy scarce, one choice, Christ's epitaph.
And then an angel there appeared to strengthen Christ with faith,
Convincing Him that though death neared, Christ only Man could save.
For that one angel, give God praise, he helped the Lord stay true,
For blessed is He who still obeys and sees salvation through.
Who knows what words were said that night as Jesus stood His ground?
For courage came instead of fright, with God's grace all around.
And though disciples slept nearby, fatigued by all they'd done,
The Saviour's faith was flying high, like eagles 'neath the sun.
He groaned that they no angel saw, that blessing they had missed!
Then came the traitor to the fore and he, Christ's cheek had kissed.
The hour here, the Lord stood still, no coward soul was He,
Because He climbed up Calvary's hill, the rest is history.
The time will come, when each is called to give the Lord account,
Of each word spoken, typed or scrawled, of great and small amount.
Yet if we saw an angel here, like Jesus did that time,
Perhaps we'd find bold faith not fear and lives would be sublime.
Behind the scenes, a war is waged, as good and evil fight,
If evil makes you so enraged, then fight with all your might.
To think, that angels visit Earth, to think that one helped Christ.
And though unnamed, each one has worth, more than we've realised...
Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2012.
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Today... 'The Glory of the Lord
A Saviour has been born to us; He is Christ the Lord.
A babe wrapped in rags by heaven and earth adored.
Angels brought to the world news of great blessing and joy.
God had come to earth and was born as a baby boy.
Your face shone like the sun so radiant and bright
as You were transfigured before their sight.
The Glory of the Lord came shining through
upon the mountain top as they gazed at You.
For they were standing upon the most holy ground
bathed in light as the Shekinah glory shone around.
This world has been illuminated by the Glory of God
shining in the face of Jesus as earths paths He trod.
For the Eternal Light and Uncreated Beam
in the life of Jesus Christ has by mankind been seen.
The image of the Godhead we see mirrored there.
You are the lord our God heaven and earth declare.
The image of the God in You Jesus we see.
the indwelling fullness of the Godhead bodily.
Peter said 'Lord it is good for us to be here'
As he watched Moses and Elijah disappear.
This sight had only been seen by a favoured few
and the Glory of God had come shining right through.
Then, 'This is my beloved son' God said to them
on the top of this mountain near Capernaum.
Later on the Isle of Patmos John saw God's Son
with His countenance shining brighter than the sun.
His eyes were like flashing fire and hair white as snow
and His feet like highly burnished bronze seemed to glow.
Then as one who was dead John fell down to the ground
for so awesome was that scene on that Island found.
Before him the glory of the Lord was too bright
far to wonderful for him to withstand the sight.
One day all will before the throne of Glory stand
and look upon a sight so glorious and grand.
For the Glory of the Lord Jesus will seen by all
and all mankind will confess You as Lord of all.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)
Nottingham By Night
My dream began that midnight hour, my spirit soared on high
And midst such wonder and such power I flew across the sky...
As if an angel, blessed with wings, with supernatural eyes,
I paused to ponder precious things with wisdom oh so wise...
For there upon the Earth below, a hundred thousand souls
Were shining brightly, all aglow, with love that overflows...
That pours out sweetly, just like wine, with kindness everywhere,
Inspired by God's love divine, each showed by what they share...
As I flew over, street-by-street, the hopes inside me grew,
For I saw people gently meet with words like, 'I love you! '
'But, Lord! ' I prayed, 'This prophecy as yet is unfulfilled...
Until You show them Calvary, no faith has been instilled...'
I heard the Lord reply in kind, as clear, as clear as day!
With holy scriptures to remind that Jesus is The Way...
'It's up to them! Each has a choice! As adults, they seek love,
Yet even little girls and boys can pray to God above...'
'What can I do to spread the Word? ' I asked the Lord again,
For by this dream my heart was stirred, so God gave me a pen...
'Write down the tenderness you've seen! The love that all could own!
The good, the bad and all between, such that these truths are known! '
That's why I share my dream today, with readers here and there
And why I'm much more prone to pray now I've been made aware...
Some souls are lost! Some souls are found! Dreams give us new insight.
A hundred thousand souls surround this poet day and night...
Denis Martindale, copyright, June 2012.
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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