The Conqueror
Not the Prussian, the forsworn,
By whose fury overborne,
Martyred Belgium, you lie
Bruised with all injury.
Through your peace red paths he clove,
Burning, slaying, making spoil
Of your shining treasure-trove,
Ancient wisdom, beauty, toil;
Drenching hearth and shrine and sod
With the blood that cries to God.
Futile all that savage force.
Time in his aeonian course
Still shall clarion your fame.
Yours the triumph;his the shame.
On your honor he made war,
But his guns have battered down
Only forts. Inheritor
Of unparalleled renown,
Belgium, your name shall be
Brighter than Thermopylæ.
None could scorn you, had you said:
'Hopeless are the odds, and dread
Will the fiery vengeance fall
On our homes. In vain we call
For help that still delays. We yield.'
But unflinching from your fate,
Up you flung your slender shield,
Bore the onset, held the gate
For the priceless hour, and saved
Liberty, yourself enslaved.
No; thrust down to serfdom, still
Your unmasterable will,
Your high fortitude and faith
Outwear exile, anguish, death.
On his strip of coast your king
Holds your glorious flag unfurled;
Your great priest, unfaltering,
Peals the truth across the world.
With your neck beneath the sword,
You are victor, you are lord.
poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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Related quotes
Bedlam In Belgium
The blood in my veins
Was running right through my brain
There was a cop with a gun
Who was running around insane
Three fifty arrests
No bullet proof vests
Now aint that a shame
We wanted to play
Play for the crowd
no, said the wankers
youre on your way out
Bedlam in belgium
The place was a jumpin
And the booze was going down
Theres a cop doing time
Whos been working overtime
We dont play just for pay
So we left the stage
Stayed just the same
He gave me a crack
In the back with his gun
That aint so bad
But to feel the blood run
Bedlam in belgium
It was bedlam in belgium
Bedlam in belgium
Cant have a good time unless you dont run
Bedlam in belgium
Whos to blame, its a shame
Bedlam in belgium
It was bedlam
You gonna run out
Stage was saged
Cops enraged
Crying for more
It was a world war war
It was bedlam in belgium
Cant have a good time unless you dont run
Bedlam in belgium
And the law got the drop on me
song performed by by AC-DC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Angel Of The Church
I.
Aye, strike with sacrilegious aim
The temple of the living God;
Hurl iron bolt and seething flame
Through aisles which holiest feet have trod;
Tear up the altar, spoil the tomb,
And, raging with demoniac ire,
Send down, in sudden crash of doom,
That grand, old, sky-sustaining spire.
II.
That spire, for full a hundred years,[1]
Hath been a people's point of sight;
That shrine hath warmed their souls to tears,
With strains well worthy Salem's height;
The sweet, clear music of its bells,
Made liquid soft in Southern air,
Still through the heart of memory swells,
And wakes the hopeful soul to prayer.
III.
Along the shores for many a mile,
Long ere they owned a beacon-mark,
It caught arid kept the Day-God's smile,
The guide for every wandering bark;[2]
Averting from our homes the scaith
Of fiery bolt, in storm-cloud driven,
The Pharos to the wandering faith,
It pointed every prayer to Heaven!
IV.
Well may ye, felons of the time,
Still loathing all that's pure and free,
Add this to many a thousand crime
'Gainst peace and sweet humanity:
Ye, who have wrapped our towns in flame,
Defiled our shrines, befouled our homes,
But fitly turn your murderous aim
Against Jehovah's ancient domes.
V.
Yet, though the grand old temple falls,
And downward sinks the lofty spire,
Our faith is stronger than our walls,
And soars above the storm and fire.
Ye shake no faith in souls made free
To tread the paths their fathers trod;
To fight and die for liberty,
Believing in the avenging God!
VI.
Think not, though long his anger stays,
His justice sleeps--His wrath is spent;
The arm of vengeance but delays,
To make more dread the punishment!
Each impious hand that lights the torch
Shall wither ere the bolt shall fall;
And the bright Angel of the Church,
With seraph shield avert the ball!
VII.
For still we deem, as taught of old,
That where the faith the altar builds,
God sends an angel from his fold,
Whose sleepless watch the temple shields,
And to his flock, with sweet accord,
Yields their fond choice, from THRONES and POWERS;
Thus, Michael, with his fiery sword
And golden shield, still champions ours!
VIII.
And he who smote the dragon down,
And chained him thousand years of time,
Need never fear the boa's frown,
Though loathsome in his spite and slime.
He, from the topmost height, surveys
And guards the shrines our fathers gave;
And we, who sleep beneath his gaze,
May well believe his power to save!
IX.
Yet, if it be that for our sin
Our angel's term of watch is o'er,
With proper prayer, true faith must win
The guardian watcher back once more I
Faith, brethren of the Church, and prayer--
In blood and sackcloth, if it need;
And still our spire shall rise in air,
Our temple, though our people bleed!
poem by William Gilmore Simms
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The Power Of Thy Sword
Lord of battle I pray on bended knee conquest by the rising sun
I'll wait for thy command with flame and blood at hand
glory and a broken sword.
I'm the master of the world I have no fear of man or beast
Born inside the soul of the world
Riding hard breaking bone with steel and stone
Eternal might I was born to wield.
Let us drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought
Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought
Great heroes charge into the fight
From the north to the south in the black of night
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
Drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought
Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought
Great heroes charge into the fight
From the north to the south in the black of night
Fierce is my blade fierce is my hate born to die in battle
I laugh at my fate
Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled
You're never forgiven death is fulfilled !
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
The clash of honor calls
I will stand when others fall
Open magic doors
The will know the power of my sword
There is blood in my hands there is blood in my eyes
With blood in my voice I scream as you die
Thirsting for vengeance and mounds of the slain
Shaking the forest onto the plain
Fierce is my blade fierce is my hate born to die in battle
I laugh at my fate
Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled
You're never forgiven death is fulfilled !
The clash of honor calls to stand when others fall
Gods of war feel the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
Know the power of my sword
They will know the power of my sword
song performed by by Manowar from The Triumph Of Steel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To The Napoleon Column
When with gigantic hand he placed,
For throne on vassal Europe based.
That column's lofty height,
Pillar, in whose dread majesty,
In double immortality,
Glory and bronze unite!
Ay, when he built it that some day
Discord or war their course might stay,
Or here might break their car;
And in our streets to put to shame
Pygmies that bear the hero's name
Of Greek and Roman war,—
It was a glorious sight. The world
His hosts had trod, with flags unfurled,
In veteran array;
Kings fled before him, forced to yield;
He, conqueror on each battle-field,
Their cannon bore away.
Then, with his victors back he came:
All France with booty teemed; her name
Was writ on sculptured stone;
And Paris cried with joy, as when
The parent bird comes home again
To th' eaglets left alone.
Into the furnace flame, so fast,
Were heaps of war-won metal cast,—
The future monument!
His thought had formed the giant mould,
And piles of brass in the fire he rolled,
From hostile cannon rent.
When to the battle-field he came,
He grasped the guns spite tongues of flame,
And bore the spoil away.
This bronze to France's Rome he brought,
And to the founder said, 'Is aught
Wanting for our array?'
And when, beneath a radiant sun,
That man, his noble purpose done,
With calm and tranquil mien,
Disclosed to view this glorious fane,
And did with peaceful hand contain
The warlike eagle's sheen,—
Round thee, when hundred thousands placed,
As some great Roman's triumph graced,
The little Romans all,—
We boys hung on the procession's flanks,
Seeking some father in thy ranks,
And loud thy praise did call.
Who that survey'd thee, when that day
Thou deemed that future glory ray
Would here be ever bright;
Feared that, ere long, all France thy grave
From pettifoggers vain would crave
Beneath that column's height?
poem by Victor Hugo
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Uncreated Light
There is a Light, an Uncreated Beam
in which the Glory of God can be seen.
A pure and holy and an Eternal light
It is seen in Jesus Christ shining bright.
A light brighter than the noonday sun
shines from the Lord, the Righteous One.
The King of kings and Lord of all
and beneath His feet all men shall fall.
A great and wondrous light that shines so bright.
banishing all the darkness from its' sight.
This uncreated Beam on earth did shine
and our lives are enriched by the Divine.
With glorious beauty His life unfurled
blazing out holiness in this dark world.
The Shekinah glory comes shining through
as the Light of Life reaches out to you.
Justice
October, 1918
Across a world where all men grieve
And grieving strive the more,
The great days range like tides and leave
Our dead on every shore.
Heavy the load we undergo,
And our own hands prepare,
If we have parley with the foe,
The load our sons must bear.
Before we loose the word
That bids new worlds to birth,
Needs must we loosen first the sword
Of Justice upon earth;
Or else all else is vain
Since life on earth began,
And the spent world sinks back again
Hopeless of God and Man.
A People and their King
Through ancient sin grown strong,
Because they feared no reckoning
Would set no bound to wrong;
But now their hour is past,
And we who bore it find
Evil Incarnate hell at last
To answer to mankind.
For agony and spoil
Of nations beat to dust,
For poisoned air and tortured soil
And cold, commanded lust,
And every secret woe
The shuddering waters saw.
Willed and fulfilled by high and low.
Let them relearn the Low.
That when the dooms are read,
Not high nor low shall say:--
" My haughty or my humble head
Was saved me in this day."
That, till the end of time,
Their remnant shall recall
Their fathers old, confederate crime
Availed them not at all.
That neither schools nor priests,
Nor Kings may build again
A people with the heart of beasts
Made wise concerning men.
Whereby our dead shall sleep
In honour, unbetrayed,
And we in faith and honour keep
That peace for which they paid.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Speech Of Flattery
See how he lies, still mighty in his ease,
The fields' huge fear, the terrifying saint;
And nothing needed but his straightened knees,
A polished helm,-perhaps a little paint.
His breast is broad, as when behind the shield
He thrust its front across the clanging line,
And stood with Gore, as trembling armies kneeled
To lay their carven trophies at his shrine.
And now the very gates would yield at sight,
The earth cry 'Welcome' and the maidens sing
'The day has come, at last, lat last, the light!
Sick Peace is slain, and slaying War is king!'
Oh, even yet will Beauty yield to Might,
And deck his couch while Numa's temples ring.'
poem by Leon Gellert
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Today... 'Light
There is a Light, an Uncreated Beam
In which the Glory of God can be seen
A pure and holy and an Eternal light
It is seen in Jesus shining so bright
A light brighter than the noonday sun
Shines from the Lord, the Righteous One
And beneath His feet all men shall fall
The King of kings and Lord of all
Great mystery of Godliness none can tell
How the fullness of the Godhead could dwell
But the glory of God came shining through
There on the mountain before their view
There is a wondrous light that shines so bright.
All darkness is banished before its' sight.
This uncreated Light on earth did shine
and our life is enriched by the Divine.
With glorious beauty His life unfurled
blazing out holiness in this dark world.
The Shekinah glory comes shining through
as the light of life reaches out to you.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)
Psalm 69 part 2
v.14-21,26,29,32
C. M.
The passion and exaltation of Christ.
Now let our lips with holy fear
And mournful pleasure sing
The suff'rings of our great High Priest,
The sorrows of our King.
He sinks in floods of deep distress;
How high the waters rise!
While to his heav'nly Father's ear
He sends perpetual cries.
"Hear me, O Lord, and save thy Son,
Nor hide thy shining face;
Why should thy fav'rite look like one
Forsaken of thy grace?
"With rage they persecute the man
That groans beneath thy wound,
While for a sacrifice I pour
My life upon the ground.
"They tread my honor to the dust,
And laugh when I complain;
Their sharp insulting slanders add
Fresh anguish to my pain.
"All my reproach is known to thee,
The scandal and the shame
Reproach has broke my bleeding heart,
And lies defiled my name.
"I looked for pity, but in vain;
My kindred are my grief:
I ask my friends for comfort round,
But meet with no relief.
"With vinegar they mock my thirst,
They give me gall for food;
And sporting with my dying groans,
They triumph in my blood.
"Shine into my distressed soul,
Let thy compassions save;
And though my flesh sink down to death,
Redeem it from the grave.
"I shall arise to praise thy name,
Shall reign in worlds unknown;
And thy salvation, O my God,
Shall seat me on thy throne."
poem by Isaac Watts
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Ameria's Welcome Home
Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue,
America's crusading host of warriors bold and true;
They battled for the rights of man beside our brave Allies,
And now they're coming home to us with glory in their eyes.
Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me!
Our hearts are turning home again and there we long to be,
In our beautiful big country beyond the ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.
Our boys have seen the Old World as none have seen before.
They know the grisly horror of the German gods of war:
The noble faith of Britain and the hero-heart of France,
The soul of Belgium's fortitude and Italy's romance.
They bore our country's great word across the rolling sea,
'America swears brotherhood with all the just and free.'
They wrote that word victorious on fields of mortal strife,
And many a valiant lad was proud to seal it with his life.
Oh, welcome home in Heaven's peace, dear spirits of the dead!
And welcome home ye living sons America hath bred!
The lords of war are beaten down, your glorious task is done;
You fought to make the whole world free, and the victory is won.
Now it's home again, and home again, our hearts are turning west,
Of all the lands beneath the sun America is best.
We're going home to our own folks, beyond the ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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The Master-Man
O CAPTAIN of the Great Event,
Which yet shall dew with crimson dew
The green coasts of our continent,
I know not where to look for you!
I know when doom shall mass about
Our shores, and strike their music dumb,
A something in your blood shall shout:
'The hour is mine! Behold, I come!'
For, if one truth since time began
O'ertowers all other truths, it is:
There ever comes the Master-Man
To make the epic moment his.
In reeling ranks and riven steel,
On red-drenched fields and seas of blood,
The bruised and broken foe shall feel
A valour not to be withstood;
The crisis shall not lack its lord,
The noon its sun, the night its star;
Beneath your high, directing sword
The triumph-tide shall surge afar.
Till God make plain your path, and fill
Your soul with martial ecstasy,
Perchance you toil in mart or mill,
Unconscious of your destiny.
Perchance you wait the breathing hour
Unborn — undrawn from distant spheres —
For, though the clouds of menace lower,
They may not break for years and years.
Yet, be it soon or be it late,
Or be it when this voice is mute,
O guardian of our golden State,
The foe shall find you resolute.
O Captain of the Great Event,
Which yet shall dew with crimson dew
The green coasts of our continent,
A victor's laurels wait for you.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Coronation Ode
O Thou enfolded in grief,
Man, with thy mantle of scorn!
Arise and warn!
Unloved prophet of ill
Who sittest clothed in thy grief,
In thy pride of unbelief,
In thy silence of love forsworn!
Speak thy word to the world;
Let it be as a sword to thy will;
Let it be as a spear that is hurled,
A banner of wrath unfurled,
A garment rent and torn.
Speak. They shall listen to thee,
A single voice at their feast.
To the last and least,
They shall hear what they loathe to hear.
In the day of their Jubilee,
Of their coronation feast,
With the wine at their insolent lips,
Though they lend no ear
And their shoutings ring
From the decks of a thousand ships
Acclaiming their new--crowned king
With a coronation cheer,
They shall hear.
Speak, in their jubilant hour,
In the midst of their might and mirth.
Be thy theme the Earth,
The ancient tale of the lands of fame,
Empires of earlier birth,
Which held the world in their lust of power
As their own for dower
And abused their trust.
Make thy theme of the wrath that came,
The smoke that rose, the devouring flame,
The day of glory, the night of shame
And the end of dust.
O thou enrobed in thy tears!
Thou hast heard the children sing,
The children that pass in the street,
The innocent ones with their chauntings proud,
The rhyme of their marching feet.
How their voices sting!
What is the word they say
In their play,
The hymn their young lips fashion?
They have marched through the crowded ways
With flags and glory and shoutings loud
While the sun has looked down ablaze,
Amazed at their joyous passion.
Each one carries a sword,
A wooden sword in his hand,
With ribbon and belt and cord,
And a gun on his shoulder glorious,
Proud each one as a lord.
``Soldiers,'' they shout. ``We are soldiers come
From a battle--field. For, hark, the drum!
From a field of fight victorious.''
``Soldiers! Soldiers! Soldiers!'' Weary am I
Of that word forlorn,
Of the king's command,
Of the children's insolent cry,
A nation's cry whom the nations scorn
For its childish pride.
Better were these unborn!
England! Where is she? Where?
Land of the fortunate free
Which hath ceased to be?
What hath she done with her fame?
The nations that envied her
Turned to her in their care,
Sought her light upon land and sea,
Called as once on her ancient name,
The name of her liberty.
But her ears were shut to their prayer;
Her place was a sepulchre,
She had ceased in her strength to be,
She was no more free.
She fell as a star from its place,
As a bird from its path in the sky,
As a spring run dry,
A fruit in its rottenness,
As a drunken woman prone on her face
While the world went by,
And she knew not her own disgrace.
O thou, who hast seen her fall,
Who hast witnessed her agony,
Who hast looked on the face of the dead!
Lift up thy voice in the night and cry
``The harvest is harvested.
As these shall have made their bed,
So let them lie!''
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Conqueror
Though I defy the howling horde
As bloody-browed I smite,
Back to the wall with shattered sword
When darkly dooms the night;
Though hoarse they cheer as I go down
Before their bitter odds,
'Tis I who win the victor's crown,
The guerdon of the gods.
For all who fall in fearless fight
Alight a deathless flame,
That glorifies the godless night
And fills the foe with shame.
'Tis they who triumph heaven-high,
And so in hell's despite,
Be mine the dauntless will to die
In battle for the right.
The rant and cant of futile folk
Break brittle in my ears;
Let me cast off the cursed yoke
And fall upon the spears.
Aye, though they mock my broken blade,
And stamp and spit on me,
Mine is the Shining Accolade,
The Star of Victory.
poem by Robert William Service
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Hymn 125
Christ's compassion to the weak and tempted.
Heb. 4:15,16; 5:7; Matt. 12:20.
With joy we meditate the grace
Of our High Priest above;
His heart is made of tenderness,
His bowels melt with love.
Touched with a sympathy within,
He knows our feeble frame;
He knows what sore temptations mean,
For he has felt the same.
But spotless, innocent, and pure,
The great Redeemer stood,
While Satan's fiery darts he bore,
And did resist to blood.
He in the days of feeble flesh
Poured out his cries and tears,
And in his measure feels afresh
What every member bears.
[He'll never quench the smoking flax,
But raise it to a flame;
The bruised reed he never breaks,
Nor scorns the meanest name.]
Then let our humble faith address
His mercy and his power;
We shall obtain deliv'ring grace
In the distressing hour.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Spanish Peasant
We have no aspiration vain
For paradise Utopian,
And here in our sun-happy Spain,
Though man exploit his fellow man,
To high constraint we humbly yield,
And turn from politics to toil,
Content to till a kindly field
And bring forth bounty from the soil.
They tell us wars will never cease;
They sy the world is out of joint.
How well we Know! But peace is peace
Even imposed at pistol point.
And we have learnt our lesson well,
By many a death, by many a tear;
So let us live a feudal spell, -
The cost of freedom is too dear.
Let us be the cattle kind,
Praying the goad be not a sword;
In servitude obeying blind
The tyrant ruling of our Lord.
His army can be swift to slay,
His Church teach us humility . . .
But never never will we pay
Again blood-price for Liberty.
poem by Robert William Service
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Genesis BK XVII
(ll. 1002-1005) Then the Lord of glory spake unto Cain, and asked
where Abel was. Quickly the cursed fashioner of death made
answer unto Him:
(ll. 1006-1008) "I know not the coming or going of Abel, my
kinsman, his lot or portion; I was not my brother's keeper."
(ll. 1008-1021) And the Gracious Spirit, Lord of angels, made
answer unto him: "Why hast thou slain that faithful man thy
brother in thy wrath, and his blood calleth and crieth unto Me?
Accursed for ever, driven into exile, thou shalt be punished for
this deed of death! The earth shall not yield thee of her
pleasant fruits for thy daily need, but by thy hands her soil is
stained with holy blood. Therefore the green earth shall
withhold from thee her beauty and her delights. In sadness and
dishonour shalt thou depart from thy home, because thou hast
slain thy brother, Abel. Loathed of thy kinsmen, an exile and a
fugitive, shalt thou wander on the face of the earth."
(ll. 1022-1035) And Cain made answer unto Him: ...."I need not
look for pity in this world, High King of heaven, for I have lost
Thy love and favour and goodwill. Weary the ways my feet must
wander, in dread of woe, whenever one shall meet me in my guilt,
near or far, and by his hate remind me of my brother's death. I
shed his blood and poured his life-blood on the ground. From
this day hast Thou cut me off from good! Thou scourgest me from
home! Some cruel foe shall slay me. And I must needs go forth,
accursed, from Thy sight, O Lord!"
(ll. 1036-1043) And the Lord of victory said unto him: "Thou
needest not yet dread death, nor the pangs of death, though thou
shalt wander, far from kinsmen, with thy doom upon thee. If any
man shall slay thee with his hands, on him shall fall a
seven-fold vengeance, and torment for that deed of sin."
(ll. 1043-1054) And God, the Lord of glory, set a mark upon him
and a token, lest any foe from far or near should dare to lift
his hand against him; and He bade him go forth in his guilt from
mother and kinsmen and from all his tribe. Then with despairing
heart, a friendless exile, Cain departed out of the sight of God,
and chose a home and dwelling in the eastern lands, far from his
father's house; and there a comely maiden bare him children after
his kind.
(ll. 1055-1073) Enoch was first-born of the sons of Cain. He
built a city with his kinsmen, the first of all those strongholds
under heaven which sword-girt men established; and in the city
sons were born to him. Irad was first-born of the sons of Enoch;
and he begat children, and all the tribe and race of Cain
increased. And after Irad Mahalaleel was warden of the treasure,
in his father's stead, until he died. Then Methusael dispensed
the treasure to his brothers and his kinsmen, man for man, till,
full of many years, he died.
(ll. 1073-1081) And at his father's death Lamech succeeded to the
treasure and the household goods. Two wives bare children to him
in his home, Adah and Zillah. Now one of the sons of Lamech was
called Jabal; and he was first of all men by his skill to stir
the harp to music and its strings to song.
Proud Old Glory
I am the blood, I am the soul
I am the essence of liberty, so bold
I am the heart, I am the life
I am the dream and the vision, all that's right
I am the hope, I am the truth
I am the faith and the spirit of the aged and the youth
I am the warmth, I am the breath
I am the peace and the honor, life and death
I am justice, I am love
I stand for freedom, and salute our brave
I serve my country with pride
Old Glory is my name, God made this land my home
I am the proud flag of America
I am the proud flag of America.
poem by Trade Martin
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Davideis: A Sacred Poem Of The Troubles Of David (excerpt)
BOOK I (excerpt)
I sing the man who Judah's sceptre bore
In that right hand which held the crook before;
Who from best poet, best of kings did grow;
The two chief gifts Heav'n could on man bestow.
Much danger first, much toil did he sustain,
Whilst Saul and Hell cross'd his strong fate in vain.
Nor did his crown less painful work afford;
Less exercise his patience, or his sword;
So long her conqueror fortunes spite pursued;
Till with unwearied virtue he subdued
All homebred malice, and all foreign boasts;
Their strength was armies, his the Lord of Hosts.
Thou, who didst David's royal stem adorn,
And gav'st him birth from whom thy self wast born;
Who didst in triumph at death's court appear,
And slew'st him with thy nails, thy cross and spear,
Whilst Hell's black tyrant trembled to behold,
The glorious light he forfeited of old;
Who Heav'ns glad burden now, and justest pride,
Sit'st high enthron'd next thy great Father's side,
(Where hallowed flames help to adorn that head
Which once the blushing thorns environed,
Till crimson drops of precious blood hung down
Like rubies to enrich thine humble crown.)
Even thou my breast with such blest rage inspire,
As mov'd the tuneful strings of David's lyre,
Guide my bold steps with thine old travelling flame,
In these untrodden paths to sacred fame;
Lo, with pure hands thy heav'enly fires to take,
My well-chang'd Muse I a chaste vestal make!
From earth's vain joys, and love's soft witchcraft free,
I consecrate my Magdalene to thee!
Lo, this great work, a temple to thy praise,
On polish'd pillars of strong verse I raise!
A temple, where if thou vouchsafe to dwell,
It Solomon's, and Herod's shall excel.
Too long the Muses-land have heathen bin;
Their gods too long were devils, and virtues sin;
But thou, Eternal Word, has call'd forth me
Th' apostle, to convert that world to thee;
T' unbind the charms that in slight fables lie,
And teach that truth is purest poesy.
...
poem by Abraham Cowley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Saved
I was blinded by the devil,
Born already ruined,
Stone-cold dead
As I stepped out of the womb.
By his grace I have been touched,
By his word I have been healed,
By his hand Ive been delivered,
By his spirit Ive been sealed.
Ive been saved
By the blood of the lamb,
Saved
By the blood of the lamb,
Saved,
Saved,
And Im so glad.
Yes, Im so glad,
Im so glad,
So glad,
I want to thank you, lord,
I just want to thank you, lord,
Thank you, lord.
By his truth I can be upright,
By his strength I do endure,
By his power Ive been lifted,
In his love I am secure.
He bought me with a price,
Freed me from the pit,
Full of emptiness and wrath
And the fire that burns in it.
Ive been saved
By the blood of the lamb,
Saved
By the blood of the lamb,
Saved,
Saved,
And Im so glad.
Yes, Im so glad,
Im so glad,
So glad,
I want to thank you, lord,
I just want to thank you, lord,
Thank you, lord.
Nobody to rescue me,
Nobody would dare,
I was going down for the last time,
But by his mercy Ive been spared.
Not by works,
But by faith in him who called,
For so long Ive been hindered,
For so long Ive been stalled.
Ive been saved
By the blood of the lamb,
Saved
By the blood of the lamb,
Saved,
Saved,
And Im so glad.
Yes, Im so glad, Im so glad,
So glad, I want to thank you, lord,
I just want to thank you, lord,
Thank you, lord.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song for norway national hymn
Yes, we love this land that towers
Where the ocean foams;
Rugged, storm-swept, it embowers
Many thousand homes.
Love it, love it, of you thinking,
Father; mother dear,
And that night of saga sinking
Dreamful to us here.
This the land that Harald guarded
With his hero-throng,
This the land that Haakon warded,
Hailed by Eyvind's song.
Olaf here the cross erected,
While his blood he shed;
Sverre's word this land protected
'Gainst the Roman dread.
Peasants whetted axes carried,
Broke th' invader's blow;
Tordenskjold flashed forth and harried,
Lighted home the foe.
Women oft to arms were leaping,
Manlike in their deed;
Others' lot was naught but weeping,
Tears that brought their meed.
Many truly were we never,
But we did suffice,
When in times of testing ever
Worthy was the prize.
For we would the land see burning,
Rather than its fall;
Memory our thoughts is turning
Down to Fredrikshald!
Harder times we bore that tried us
Were cast off in scorn;
In that crisis was beside us
Blue-eyed freedom born.
That gave father-strength for bearing
Famine-need and sword,
Honor death itself outwearing,
And it gave accord.
Far our foe his weapons flinging
Up his visor raised;
We in wonder to him springing
On our brother gazed.
Both by wholesome shame incited
Southward made our way;
Brothers three
, in heart united,
We shall stand for aye!
Men of Norway, high or lowly,
Give to God the praise!
He our land's Defender Holy
In its darkest days!
All our fathers here have striven
And our mothers wept,
Hath the Lord His guidance given,
So our right we kept.
Yes, we love this land that towers
Where the ocean foams;
Rugged, storm-swept, it embowers
Many thousand homes.
As our fathers' conflict gave it
Vict'ry at the end,
Also we, when time shall crave it,
Will its peace defend.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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