Trust Of The Wicked, And The Righteous Compared
As parched in the barren sands
Beneath a burning sky,
The worthless bramble with'ring stands,
And only grows to die.
Such is the sinner's aweful case,
Who makes the world his trust;
And dares his confidence to place
In vanity and dust.
A secret curse destroys his root,
And dries his moisture up;
He lives awhile, but bears no fruit,
Then dies without a hope.
But happy he whose hopes depend
Upon the Lord alone;
The soul that trusts in such a friend,
Can ne'er be overthrown.
Though gourds should wither, cisterns break,
And creature-comforts die;
No change his solid hope can shake,
Or stop his sure supply.
So thrives and blooms the tree whose roots
By constant streams are fed;
Arrayed in green, and rich in fruits,
It rears its branching head.
It thrives, though rain should be denied,
And drought around prevail;
'Tis planted by a river's side
Whose waters cannot fail.
poem by John Newton
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Reservation For One
This is my tree, my tree, my tree,
My one lone tree, pear tree,
It grows, overflows, it grows it’s fruit,
Alone, only for me.
If I could go to a far-away place,
With just me and my tree, pear tree,
I’d pack my bags, my bags I’d pack,
I’d pick up my bags and flee.
There’s nothing at all, no nothing,
At all, that films me more with glee,
Than those globes, those globes,
Of precious fruit in my tree, pear tree.
I sit beneath, beneath I sit,
Its laden canopy, I polish it’s leafs then,
Set a table of fruits,
Of wine, and bread and brie.
This tree, my tree, could feed the world,
Find me a wife and camaraderie,
It’s powers, it’s powers are vast but I
Can’t pass on its secret sadly.
I’d tell the world, the world I’d tell,
If they weren’t all so hungry, you see.
But my fruit, my fruits, my laboured.
Fruits, I grew only for me, for me,
No none are as hungry as me.
poem by Suzanne Louise Bishop
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Upon The Barren Fig-Tree In God's Vineyard
What, barren here! in this so good a soil?
The sight of this doth make God's heart recoil
From giving thee his blessing; barren tree,
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!
Art thou not planted by the water-side?
Know'st not thy Lord by fruit is glorified?
The sentence is, Cut down the barren tree:
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be.
Hast thou been digg'd about and dunged too,
Will neither patience nor yet dressing do?
The executioner is come, O tree,
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!
He that about thy roots takes pains to dig,
Would, if on thee were found but one good fig,
Preserve thee from the axe: but, barren tree,
Bear fruit, or else thy end will cursed be!
The utmost end of patience is at hand,
'Tis much if thou much longer here doth stand.
O cumber-ground, thou art a barren tree.
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!
Thy standing nor they name will help at all;
When fruitful trees are spared, thou must fall.
The axe is laid unto thy roots, O tree!
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be.
poem by John Bunyan
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The Blasted Fig-Tree
One aweful word which Jesus spoke,
Against the tree which bore no fruit;
More piercing than the lightning's stroke,
Blasted and dried it to the root.
But could a tree the Lord offend,
To make him show his anger thus?
He surely had a farther end,
To be a warning word to us.
The fig-tree by its leaves was known,
But having not a fig to show;
It brought a heavy sentence down,
Let none hereafter on thee grow.
Too many, who the gospel hear,
Whom Satan blinds and sin deceives;
We to this fig-tree may compare,
They yield no fruit, but only leaves.
Knowledge, and zeal, and gifts, and talk,
Unless combined with faith and love,
And witnessed by a gospel walk,
Will not a true profession prove.
Without the fruit the Lord expects
Knowledge will make our state the worse;
The barren trees he still rejects,
And soon will blast them with his curse.
O Lord, unite our hearts in prayer!
On each of us thy Spirit send;
That we the fruits of grace may bear,
And find acceptance in the end.
poem by John Newton
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My Own Belief
there is always a time to change
everything is changing
you are not an exception, sort of saying
this corollary
there is always hope,
every rain in our hair is hope itself
every darkness in our eyes
is hope in the making
the pain inside is hope speaking well enough
everything hopes the wrong way perhaps
looking for what makes us happy
which is not really the
thing
don't think about it, keep moving,
and when tired,
sleep, dream,
dream of bridges with flood beneath it
you are on top of the situation
invent wings, and claws and be any kind of bird
settle down
and be a stone for the night
there is always this transformation
because hope is there
there is always change making changes
you just fail to understand
this body, is not your body, it is not yours,
this soul is not yours,
you are a dropp of tear in the ocean
the same salt
everywhere.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Joy Of The Lord Is Your Strength
Joy is a fruit that will not grow
In nature's barren foil;
All we can boast, till Christ we know,
Is vanity and toil.
But where the Lord has planted grace;
And made his glories known;
There fruits of heavenly joy and peace
Are found, and there alone.
A bleeding Saviour seen by faith,
A sense of pard'ning love;
A hope that triumphs over death,
Give joys like those above.
To take a glimpse within the veil,
To know that God is mine;
Are springs of joy that never fail,
Unspeakably divine!
These are the joys which satisfy,
And sanctify the mind;
Which make the spirit mount on high,
And leave the world behind.
No more, believers, mourn your lot,
But if you are the Lord's
Resign to them that know him not,
Such joys as earth affords.
poem by John Newton
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Waiting For Spring
Though cloudy skies, and northern blasts,
Retard the gentle spring awhile;
The sun will conqu'ror prove at last,
And nature wear a vernal smile.
The promise, which from age to age,
Has brought the changing seasons round;
Again shall calm the winter's rage,
Perfume the air, and paint the ground.
The virtue of that first command,
I know still does, and will prevail;
That while the earth itself shall stand,
The spring and summer shall not fail.
Such changes are for us decreed;
Believers have their winters too;
But spring shall certainly succeed,
And all their former life renew.
Winter and spring have each their use,
And each, in turn, his people know;
One kills the weeds their hearts produce,
The other makes their graces grow.
Though like dead trees awhile they seem,
Yet having life within their root,
The welcome spring's reviving beam
Draws forth their blossoms, leaves, and fruit.
But if the tree indeed be dead,
It feels no change, though spring return,
Its leafless naked, barren head,
Proclaims it only fit to burn.
Dear Lord, afford our souls a spring,
Thou know'st our winter has been long;
Shine forth, and warm our hearts to sing,
And thy rich grace shall be our song.
poem by John Newton
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Sonnet: A Sterile Person
I am a river-bed that’s dry for long;
There was no rain in the mountains up-stream;
Neither is there melting of snow, bird-song;
Utterly shattered is my watery-dream.
I am a barren desert formed from ground;
My lips are parched as rains can never come;
My verdure gone, men look at me dumbfound;
A sea of sand, I cannot one welcome.
I am a tree with leaves and no flowers;
I am a tree with flowers, yet no fruit;
I have not changed despite many showers;
Oh, how I wish I could sever my root.
But live I must despite my barren life!
For my soul’s sake, suffer I must more strife.
7-1-2002 by Dr John Celes
poem by John Celes
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The Barren Fig-Tree
The church a garden is
In which believers stand,
Like ornamental trees
Planted by God's own hand:
His Spirit waters all their roots,
And every branch abounds with fruits.
But other trees there are,
In this enclosure grow;
Which, though they promise fair,
Have only leaves to show:
No fruits of grace are on them found,
They stand but cumb'rers of the ground.
The under gard'ner grieves,
In vain his strength he spends,
For heaps of useless leaves,
Afford him small amends:
He hears the Lord his will make known,
To cut the barren fig-trees down.
How difficult his post,
What pangs his bowels move,
To find his wishes crossed,
His labors useless prove!
His last relief is earnest prayer,
Lord, spare them yet another year.
Spare them, and let me try
What farther means may do;
I'll fresh manure apply,
My digging I'll renew
Who knows but yet they fruit may yield!
If not--'tis just, they must be felled.
If under means of grace,
No gracious fruits appear;
It is a dreadful case,
Though God may long forbear:
At length he'll strike the threatened blow,
And lay the barren fig-tree low.
poem by John Newton
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Arbor Amoris
I have a tree, a graft of Love,
That in my heart has taken root;
Sad are the buds and blooms thereof,
And bitter sorrow is its fruit;
Yet, since it was a tender shoot,
So greatly hath its shadow spread,
That underneath all joy is dead,
And all my pleasant days are flown,
Nor can I slay it, nor instead
Plant any tree, save this alone.
Ah, yet, for long and long enough
My tears were rain about its root,
And though the fruit be harsh thereof,
I scarcely looked for better fruit
Than this, that carefully I put
In garner, for the bitter bread
Whereon my weary life is fed:
Ah, better were the soil unsown
That bears such growths; but Love instead
Will plant no tree, but this alone.
Ah, would that this new spring, whereof
The leaves and flowers flush into shoot,
I might have succour and aid of Love,
To prune these branches at the root,
That long have borne such bitter fruit,
And graft a new bough, comforted
With happy blossoms white and red;
So pleasure should for pain atone,
Nor Love slay this tree, nor instead
Plant any tree, but this alone.
L'ENVOY.
Princess, by whom my hope is fed,
My heart thee prays in lowlihead
To prune the ill boughs overgrown,
Nor slay Love's tree, nor plant instead
Another tree, save this alone.
poem by François Villon
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Bible Stories: Job (Chapter XIV)
Job Continues:
Eve-born, man’s life is transient,
And full of troubles, incessant;
Akin a flower sprung, that fades
Or shadow swift that not abides.
How can you pick on such a one,
And bring to judgment for things done?
Can there be found a man all clean,
And undefiled in life, who’s been?
His days and months are numbers fixed,
The limits which he cannot pass!
Like hireling, he passes his day;
So, let him be and look away.
Even a tree has hope if cut,
It sprouts again with tender shoot;
Although in earth, grown old is root,
And die in dust, its stump and fruit.
Watered by rain, it lives again;
And puts young branches, not in vain;
Alas, when dies a man, then he,
Loses all vigor entirely.
Like how the waters of a lake
Or stream dry up to ne’er awake,
Man sleeps to ne’er rise again,
Until no more heavens remain!
Would you then hide me in nether,
Until your wrath finds good weather,
And fix a time and remember
Him as a once-earthly member?
The life of man is drudgery-
A wait long brings relief barely;
Your call, I would answer you then:
Work of your hands you esteem, when;
Then, you would count my footsteps all,
And sins of mine, never recall;
And seal my misdeeds in a pouch,
My guilt to cover, me you vouch.
As mountain falls and rocks change place,
And every stone, waters efface,
And waters wash the ground’s top-soil,
The hope of man, so you do foil.
Unknown to him, his sons you hail
Or disgrace when you once prevail;
With changed a form, he’s sent away,
With grieving-soul and pain en way!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 5-1-2007
poem by John Celes
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My Pride
there is a pride that thrives inside me
it cannot be obliterated or destroyed.
it does not dwindle or shake but stands
with a confidence that is too strong to comprehend.
its head is not too big
and its ego has no relationship with itself
but with which the pride was engendered
by the golden hands of love
and the heart that can overpower the universe
and all of its burning stars and twinkling galaxies.
my pride was based on the ruler
whose home is the most elegant
and pure to where which everyone is invited.
my pride is powered by the God of love and the
Lord of the never ending universe.
poem by Taylor Dubay
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Badmans Song
Heard every word that was said that night
When the light of the world put the world to right
Well heres to the boys back in 628
Where an ear to the wall was a twist of fate
I will shine a blinding light
Through those hearts as black as night
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But as least the seeds of love will be sown
Now once in awhile when I feel no shame
I get down on my knees and I pray for rain
And though the breeze blows gently while I state my case
Therell be certain men waiting just to scratch my face
Hand on my heart I will make a stand
For the life and the times of the mirrorman
In my head there is a mirror
When Ive been bad, Ive been wrong
Food for the saints that are quick to judge me
Hope for a badman
This is the badmans song
Guilt in the frame of the looking-glass
Puts a shine on the mind where reflections pass
Where the jigsaw pieces of a broken man
Try and fit themselves together again
Lies in disguise in the name of trust
Put your head in the sand it will turn to dust !
Whats your problem ? whats your curse ?
Wont it make the matter worse ?
In my head...
And they say faith can move move mountains
Fire can cleanse your soul
Faith can move mountains
But mind over matter wont you stop all your chatter - no !
I heard every word that was said that night
When the light of the world put the world to right
When I hear soft whispers at the break of day
(Im in trouble every step of the way)
Sweet talking boys who can do no wrong
When the stories are tall as the day is long
With such a thin drawn between friend and foe
Lord help me now and bless my soul !
Look at yourself - see how you lie
Your hands start shaking and you dont know why
Look at yourself - see how you lie
Your hands start shaking and you dont know why
Well theres food for the saints that are quick to judge me
Hope for a badman...
song performed by by Tears For Fears
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Garden
A Garden contemplation suits,
And may instruction yield,
Sweeter than all the flow'rs and fruits
With which the spot is filled.
Eden was Adam's dwelling place,
While blest with innocence;
But sin o'erwhelmed him with disgrace,
And drove the rebel thence.
Oft as the garden-walk we tread,
We should bemoan his fall;
The trespass of our legal head
In ruin plunged us all.
The garden of Gethsemane,
The second Adam saw,
Oppressed with woe, to set us free
From the avenging law.
How stupid we, who can forget,
With gardens in our sight,
His agonies and bloody sweat,
In that tremendous night.
His church as a fair garden stands,
Which walls of love enclose;
Each tree is planted by his hand,
And by his blessing grows.
Believing hearts are gardens too,
For grace has sown its seeds;
Where once, by nature, nothing grew
But thorns and worthless weeds.
Such themes to those who Jesus love,
May constant joys afford;
And make a barren desert prove
The garden of the Lord.
poem by John Newton
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Sonnet – Don’t Be
Don't be the fallen leaves, so young and green;
Don't be the buds that never can flower;
Don't be the twigs that always remain lean;
Don't be the flow'rs that dropp with each shower.
Don't be the branches growing very long;
Don't be the tree that never blooms at all;
Don’t be the nests that disallow Bird-song;
Don't be the fruits that hit the Earth by Fall.
Don't be the trunk hollowed by Birds, white-Ants;
Don't be the crown that can't get Sun or Rain;
Don't be the tree that grows not straight but slants;
Don't be the roots that prop the tree in vain.
Don't be the tree that grows on marshy-land;
Just be a tree secure in Maker's Hand.
poem by John Celes
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I Hope He Makes You Happy
I hope he makes you happy
As I look in your direction
As the tears stream from my eyes
Trying to forget
All the memories deep inside
I hope he makes you happy
As the wind blows you away from me
As the sun goes off my face
Wondering if you remember
All the times you held me tight
I hope he makes you happy
As rain clouds cover the sun
As teardrops make the rain
Trying to prevent
All the love I feel within
I hope he makes you happy
As the ocean washes me away
As sand castles get destroyed
Wondering if you will forget
All the times you touched my skin
I hope he makes you happy
As petals begin to fall
As my heart begins to break
I hope he makes you happy
Like you did me
poem by Jeremy Rodriguez
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Watch My Steps
Dig around it and fertilize it with love,
And like the fig tree planted in the vineyard of love;
But the heat came in because of the wind!
And like the south wind blowing around you.
Dig, big, fig, nig, pig, cig, jig, rig, wig;
For three years i have benn searching for the fruit of your love,
But try to watch my steps to understand my muse;
And like butter given to the women in your town at last.
With hope to climb to the top,
With love to care for you,
With my mind to be at the right place always,
But i will still search for you;
Because you are like a tree planted by the river of waters!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Tree's Fruit
Good fruit or bad fruit, a tree can only bear one,
This parable was taught by God's one and only Son.
First mentioned by John as a warning for the Pharisees to heed,
But being blind to The Truth, most of them would not believe.
Your life is the tree and your deeds are the fruit,
This is a simple analogy that it hard to dispute.
But the Pharisees who knew the Word and lived in the land,
Were rebuked by John the Baptist, as they didn't understand.
Christians need to produce fruit for the Lord and nothing less,
And all the fruit that we produce should be fruits of righteousness.
Our old nature will produce fruit that comes from the past,
Not only is this fruit bad, but it's the kind that won't last.
Not only is bearing good fruit The Lord's heart desire,
But trees that continue to bear bad fruit may be cast in the fire.
Within your own heart is where the good or bad fruit is stored,
And by your fruits men will know you, is made clear by The Lord.
The fruit of righteousness is a tree of life, was once said,
However, a tree that bears bad fruit may be eternally dead.
What fruit you produce is strictly your choice my dear friend,
And by this choice you will either be blessed or condemned.
( 03/2002)
Of Hope (a fourteener)
Hope flourishes as flower which, when watered, nurtured, sprouts -
but first seed must take root in garden free from shady doubts.
mind's probing fingers, working, plucking weeds that stunt, consume;
strip hazards from environment so seed of Hope can bloom.
while some say Hope's perpetual and grows e'en without seed,
won't falter - feast or famine - and can withstand dirty deed.
I think more so Hope grows where effort made has clearly shown
that Faith was planted justly and then - Hope - the harvest grown.
Hope feeds upon a memory of expectations met,
where struggles as a seedling then grows larger, stronger yet.
And bow-tied with a ribbon, Hope becomes a gift still more -
for Hope as gift soon shape-shifts until Faith stands at the door.
yet caution wise to realize that Hope, when falsly gained
as dissapointment underlies; Faith/Hope fails - none retained.
let application/ action then help Hope become a tree,
the end result - a gift to self - instilled in me by me.
111909
poem by Terri Turrell
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0006 If only
If only
everyone about to pull the trigger of a gun
imagined the shell hitting his own family
what a world
if only
everyone remembered how they loved
their teddy bears or dolls, asking nothing back from them
and lived like this for the rest of their lives
what a world
if only
we could keep the environment as clean and happy
as the seaside
what a world
if only
everyone who cut down a tree
planted a tree in its place
what a world
if only
you would add your own deepest hopes to this poem
and all your friends agreed
what a poem
what a world
poem by Michael Shepherd
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True Love
True Love spoke in her beauty
to the harlot of a cheaper, boastful love.
Who felt superior in youthful abundance.
Your love is like the leaves on the tree
that wither and fall in Autumn,
my love is the whole tree.
Your love is like the rain
that falls from black cloud heights,
my love is the sea, from which rain was born.
Your love is like a dew dropp
sparkling on a blade of grass
at dawn of newborn day.
My love is each elfin droplet
in the rainbow, as the sun bursts
upon it, beginning
a golden summer morning.
Your love lost is like a drought
in a harsh season
winter rains restore moisture
to scorched parched land.
True love lost is ever
a broken wasteland
poor worthless soil
destitute devoid of life’s magic.
Each has its place
for not all may pay the price
each contains its strife
woven into the hectic pace of life.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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