The Olive
I have heard a friar say
That the Olive learned to pray
In Gethsemane,-
A holy man was he,
Jacopo by name,-
All upon his bended knees
From Jerusalem
He crossed Kedron brook
And to the garden came
Of Gethsemane,
And the very olive-trees
Are there to this day.
And I would have you know,
For I loved to hear him speak,
Good Friar Jacopo!-
That on an Easter-week,
In the time long ago
Of bloody Pilate 'King of Rome,'
Lord Jesus
To the garden-gate did come
Of Gethsemane.
And as He came at the dear look
O' the Lord a sudden shudder shook
The wood, and wooden moans and groans
Allowed the silence of the stones.
(The stones that next day, as 'tis said,
Oped their mouths and spake the dead.)
And when He bent His sacred knees
The shame of limbs that could not bend
Suppled every bough's end
To a lythe
And pliant wythe.
But ere He spake a-silent stood
Every tree in all the wood,
And the silence began to fill
Inly, as the ears with blood
When the outer world is still.
And when He spake at the first
'Let this cup' did somewhat swell
Every twig and tip asunder,
Like the silence in the head
When the veins are nigh to burst;
And at the second was nothing seer
To stir, but all the swollen green
Blackened as a cloud with thunder;
But in the final agony,
When His anguish brake its bands
And the bloody sweat down-fell,
At the third 'Let this cup'
As He lifted up His hands
Black drops fell from every tree
And all the forest lifted up.
The Lord went to Calvary-
Well, perhaps, for you and me,
Brother, who being men are fain
To profit by the blessed loss
That quivers overhead while we
At the foot of the cross-mast
With the hereditary face
Reckon up our selfish gain,
Rend his sacred weeds and cast
Lots for the vesture of His grace,-
Aye, at the dabbled foot of the Cross
While that dear blood doth flow.
The Olive cannot chaffer so,
Not being a man, altho'
Since the pallors of that hour
It hath kept a human power
And is not quite a tree;
Now and then
Round the unbelief of men
It lifts up praying hands,
Because it is so much a tree
And cannot tell its tale
Nor reach
To clear its knowledge into speech.
And whether on that awful day
In Gethsemane
There was wind,
Or whether because day and night
And day again all winds that blew
From the City on the height
Shuddered with the things they knew
I know not, but you shall find
An Almighty Memory-
That yearly grows and flowers and fruits
And strikes the blindness of its roots
And suckers forth, but howsoe'er
It blindly beat itself beyond
Its planted first can do no more
Than stretch the measure of its bond
And shape as it had shaped before
The arborous passion that can ne'er
Be paroled into shriving air-
Sicken in the leafy blood
And turn it deadly pale.
And as when a strong malady
Of tertian and quatertian pain,
Turning the cause whence it began
Into the woe of man,
By loops and conduits else too fine
For an incarnadine,
Hath shaken, shaken it from the body into space,
When life and health again co-reign,
And all youth's rosy cheer
Tunes every nerve and summers every vein,
Some crucial habit of the brain
Sudden repeats the unforgotten throe-
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Related quotes
Jerusalem, Jerusalem How Glad
Jerusalem, Jerusalem how glad
am I in prayer to have stood;
in thee blessed city at remains
of thy second temple’s walls.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem Oh how glad
am I sacred Via Dolorosa walked;
in remembrance atonement passed
stations of The Cross to have passed.
Jerusalem, Jerusalem Oh how glad
am I who before entering sacred;
Garden of Gethsemane to view aged
olive trees was cast down humbled.
For Jesus in agony fear here sweated
blood in prayer to heaven to father God;
when last among these olives he stood
thus rejoice all bowed before our Lord.
In pilgrimage to Calvary where our Lord
for my sins humanities Christ was Crucified;
where a group of witnesses Marys stood
bewailing in heart soul worship as we should.
This most Holy City Jerusalem City of our God
site of our Saviour’s Cross where our Saviour trod;
Almighty God this is thy most sacred Holy City still
at Messiah’s return here raise holy men at thy will.
The Via Dolorosa (Latin for Way of Grief or Way of Suffering) is the sacred two part street, within the Old City of Jerusalem; where Jesus walked carrying the cross, on the way to his crucifixion.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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My Heart Is Ready
Be witness, good Gethsemane, great garden of My God,
Who fashioned this very body, its arteries and blood,
Who took the stars and made My eyes, put sunshine in My smiles
And now compels Me realise this world and Satan's wiles...
Be witness, good Gethsemane, great garden, day and night,
That I behold My Calvary, yet I must not take flight,
The coward's path has nought to gain, as faith bids Me to stay,
Till Judas sells My soul in vain before the end of day...
Be witness, good Gethsemane, great garden, truly blessed,
Where life still blossoms gracefully surviving every test,
For I am like the Tree of Life transplanted on a hill,
With fruits and flowers healing strife according to God's will.
Be witness, good Gethsemane, of Christ, the great I AM
And His triumphant tragedy, Good Shepherd and God's Lamb,
None other pleases Him to die, atoning for Man's sins,
Though Man himself cries, 'Crucify! ' and kills the Precious Prince...
Be witness, good Gethsemane, of life then death and more,
According to God's prophecy, appeasement to His Law,
One righteous act, one life, one soul, one duty to perform,
Till I have served this mortal role, My blood no longer warm...
Be witness, good Gethsemane, of all these truths to learn,
Yet mark My words, My destiny is that I must return,
For Death has feeble threads to hold the Holy Son of Man...
My heart is ready to unfold My Father's perfect plan...
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Garden Of Gethsemane
The place is fair and tranquil, Judaea’s cloudless sky
Smiles down on distant mountain, on glade and valley nigh,
And odorous winds bring fragrance from palm-tops darkly green,
And olive trees whose branches wave softly o’er the scene.
Whence comes the awe-struck feeling that fills the gazer’s breast,
The breath, quick-drawn and panting, the awe, the solemn rest?
What strange and holy magic seems earth and air to fill,
That worldly thoughts and feelings are now all hushed and still?
Ah! here, one solemn evening, in ages long gone by,
A mourner knelt and sorrowed beneath the starlit sky,
And He whose drops of anguish bedewed the sacred sod
Was Lord of earth and heaven, our Saviour and our God!
Hark to the mournful whispers from olive leaf and bough!
They fanned His aching temples, His damp and grief-struck brow;
Hark! how the soft winds murmur with low and grieving tone!
They heard His words of anguish, they heard each sigh and moan.
Alone in deepest agony, while tired apostles slept;
No one to share His vigil—weep with Him as He wept;
Before Him, clearly rising, the Cross, the dying pain,
And sins of hosts unnumbered whose souls He dies to gain.
O Garden of Gethsemane! the God-like lesson, then
Left as a precious token to suff’ring, sorrowing men,
Has breaking hearts oft strengthened, that else, so sharply tried,
Had sunk beneath sin’s burden and in despair had died.
O Garden of Gethsemane! “when pressed and sore afraid,”
May I in spirit enter beneath thine olive shade,
And, great though be my anguish, still, like that God-like One,
Submissive say: “Oh Father! Thy will, not mine, be done!”
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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I Am Ascending To My Father
I have fallen upon my knees heavily; God cast
me down, before entering this holy sacred spot;
the Garden of Gethsemane, in the Kidron valley;
among those ancient olive trees I pondered
upon my pilgrimage way, their twisted arms their
gnarled trunks, witnessed Jesus pass this way;
blood my Lord sweated here in fear in agony
his prayers to heaven, to his father were carried;
but the bitter cup he bore, could be not removed.
I have walked upon the sacred Via Dolorosa
where Christ carried our bloody cross, chastised
first, by his whipped tortured stripes, we are healed. 1 Peter 2: 24.
I have walked upon the Hill of Calvary Golgotha
where the New Testament describes Jesus, crucified
entered, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, venerated.
Here once many women viewed the crucifixion
from a distance, here by the Cross, three Marys’ stood
Christ’s mother, her sister Mary and Mary Magdalene. John 19: 25.
Here the sepulchre the Church of the Resurrection
acclaimed to be the site, of the resurrection, of Jesus
here while weeping, Mary Magdalene, stooped forward
looked into the memorial tomb and she viewed
two angels in white sitting one at the head
and one at the feet where the body of Jesus had
been lying. And the angels said to her: “Woman,
why are you weeping? ” She said to the angels:
“They have taken my Lord away, and I do not know
where they have taken him.” After saying these things,
she turned and viewed Jesus standing, ....
Jesus said to her: “Stop clinging to me. For I have not yet
ascended to the Father. But be on your way to my brothers
and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and YOUR
Father and to my God and Your God.’ ” Christ had risen. John 20: 11-18.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Sweet Water
In the Garden of Gethsemane
was Jesus on the cross
hanging from the olive tree
when the cross was cut down
it drove so deep into the desert sand
the spring of life
was released from the ground
and God found.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Barnfloor and Winepress
And he said, If the Lord do not help thee, whence shall I help thee? out of the barnfloor, or out of the winepress?
2 Kings VI: 27
Thou that on sin's wages starvest,
Behold we have the joy in harvest:
For us was gather'd the first fruits,
For us was lifted from the roots,
Sheaved in cruel bands, bruised sore,
Scourged upon the threshing-floor;
Where the upper mill-stone roof'd His head,
At morn we found the heavenly Bread,
And, on a thousand altars laid,
Christ our Sacrifice is made!
Thou whose dry plot for moisture gapes,
We shout with them that tread the grapes:
For us the Vine was fenced with thorn,
Five ways the precious branches torn;
Terrible fruit was on the tree
In the acre of Gethsemane;
For us by Calvary's distress
The wine was racked from the press;
Now in our altar-vessels stored
Is the sweet Vintage of our Lord.
In Joseph's garden they threw by
The riv'n Vine, leafless, lifeless, dry:
On Easter morn the Tree was forth,
In forty days reach'd heaven from earth;
Soon the whole world is overspread;
Ye weary, come into the shade.
The field where He has planted us
Shall shake her fruit as Libanus,
When He has sheaved us in His sheaf,
When He has made us bear his leaf. -
We scarcely call that banquet food,
But even our Saviour's and our blood,
We are so grafted on His wood.
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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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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Today... 'Abba
'Abba, Father', Jesus said, 'Take this cup from me'
whilst praying in the garden of Gethsemane.
'I know that all things are possible for You
and that there is nothing that You cannot do.'
'Yet not what I will but what You will, ' He said
as in deep anguish great drops of blood He bled.
Then He went on to complete salvations plan
agreed by the Godhead before time began.
'Abba, Father, ' like Jesus we too can cry
as we pour out our soul to the Lord on high.
For the sons and daughters of our God are we
and never more in slavery shall we be.
The Spirit of Christ is dwelling in our heart
and causes all the fear and dread to depart.
For our Lord Jesus drained the bitter cup dry
when He bowed His head upon the cross to die.
Abba Father, the Spirit has testified
that I am the child for whom He has died.
An heir of God and co-heir with Jesus Christ
sharing in His suffering and sacrifice.
No more an orphan for the Father I know
I'm in His family where life's riches flow.
Led by the Spirit I gaze into His face
as God's love floods into my soul by His grace.
We are sons and daughters of the living God
and we walk the same pathway that Jesus trod.
All saved by His grace and purchased with His blood
and trusting in the promises of our God.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)
The Agony Of Waiting
the agony in the garden of Gethsemane
the sweat turning to blood
Jesus asking for the will of God
this waiting has been dragging
judgment suspended, i am sleeping.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Vision the Tree that was Me
I saw a tree so tall and straight
It almost reached to the heavenly gate
I was very close to that tall tree
I became the tree, and the tree became me A fire was burning all around
It burned the roots that were attached to the ground
The fire did not burn the heart of the tree;
As I was the tree and the tree was me. God saved the tree that was me,
God looks upon the heart you see
He saw a sinful heart set free
Sins all buried on the cross of calvary God took the tree that was me,
And planted it by crystal sea
I am the tree, and the tree of life is in me
I, and the tree are one you see, Would you like to be our neighbor?
A tree planted by the waters.
Come to the cross dear sisters and brothers
Jesus will meet you; and we will meet each other.
poem by Pearline Wagner
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My Oak Tree
My taste for love is what I long,
The secret so full and free
My heart of love beats every day
Because of this Oak Tree
The beauty of its leaves, we seldom admire
Oh Creator Lord to thee
How foolish our paths would have been
If it wasn’t for this Oak Tree
How quickly this seed germinated
Our eyes could hardly see
I treasured every moment
Beneath this Oak Tree
As little children we play and hide
How sweet are those memories to me?
The games we played, the jokes we shared
Beneath this Oak Tree
I would never forget this Oak Tree dear
For she is very dear to me
It matters not how grey I get
For my Mother is that Oak Tree
I watched this tree as the leaves got dry
The limbs begin to break
I fell to my knees, and begged the Lord
“Please don’t you this Oak Tree take”
Lord, if this tree should bend its head
I dread that day to see
May time give way to that glorious day
When we meet in eternity.
poem by Troy Brown
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Messiah: The First Judgement
++++++++++++++++++ INTRODUCTION +++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++ Who of this Earth is higher ++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++ Than Jesus the Messiah! ? ++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++
When God breathed life in Adam's form, He poured His Spirit there
And in his life's blood, red and warm, He made Man self-aware.
Thus Adam knew what sin had done when from God's tree he ate,
Yet one day God sent us His Son to face an awful fate!
When Mary knew the Lord blessed her, she said, 'May it be so! '
When Joseph at first addressed her, his doubts began to grow...
Within a dream, the Lord revealed that he must act with faith.
Reluctantly he had to yield and so God's Son was safe...
In Bethlehem, where Christ was born, some shepherds came to call.
For to His manger they were drawn and at His feet to fall.
In time, the child became a man, a preacher to the lost.
In time, to die, to serve God's plan, but first to count the cost!
The Teacher left Gethsemane - He knew the Father's will.
He bled His way to Calvary and climbed Golgotha's hill...
And there He agonised and died, Jesus of Nazareth!
And though the Lord was crucified, God raised His Son from death!
Behold the Saviour! Praise the Lord! Believe and be baptised!
Accept God's Word and be assured! Hosanna in the highest!
The Rapture waits its godly time - so preach God's Word anew!
Salvation's truths are quite sublime: Christ died for me and you!
poem by Denis Martindale
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Bethlehem-Town
As I was going to Bethlehem-town,
Upon the earth I cast me down
All underneath a little tree
That whispered in this wise to me:
'Oh, I shall stand on Calvary
And bear what burthen saveth thee!'
As up I fared to Bethlehem-town,
I met a shepherd coming down,
And thus he quoth: 'A wondrous sight
Hath spread before mine eyes this night,--
An angel host most fair to see,
That sung full sweetly of a tree
That shall uplift on Calvary
What burthen saveth you and me!'
And as I gat to Bethlehem-town,
Lo! wise men came that bore a crown.
'Is there,' cried I, 'in Bethlehem
A King shall wear this diadem?'
'Good sooth,' they quoth, 'and it is He
That shall be lifted on the tree
And freely shed on Calvary
What blood redeemeth us and thee!'
Unto a Child in Bethlehem-town
The wise men came and brought the crown;
And while the infant smiling slept,
Upon their knees they fell and wept;
But, with her babe upon her knee,
Naught recked that Mother of the tree,
That should uplift on Calvary
What burthen saveth all and me.
Again I walk in Bethlehem-town
And think on Him that wears the crown.
I may not kiss His feet again,
Nor worship Him as did I then;
My King hath died upon the tree,
And hath outpoured on Calvary
What blood redeemeth you and me!
poem by Eugene Field
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That Old Rugged Cross
That cross so simple in design, spans throughout all of time.
As simple as that cross may be, it reaches well into eternity.
A wooden beam upon a tree, lifted high on Mount Calvary.
For all the saints of the past, it capped a hope that will last.
As that hope they waited for, was fulfilled through our Lord.
For the saints of latter years, it would conquer all our fears,
As death was swallowed in victory, on that cross at Calvary.
Today the cross of Jesus Christ, can grant victory to any life.
From that single horrific place, God began this age of Grace.
While many were dismayed, the Love of God was displayed.
By God, Christ was shunned, as wrath was sent on His Son.
Wrath meant for you and me, which was poured at Calvary.
God’s own Son bearing disgrace; a sinless lamb in our place.
In agony Christ was seized, until God’s anger was appeased,
As Christ paid the ultimate price, becoming for all a sacrifice.
He died and bled on the cross, washing away our sinful dross.
The sinless man bearing the cost, to bring to God, sinners lost.
And all who come to Jesus Christ, by the cross gain New Life,
As that bloody cross of Calvary, leads all men towards Eternity.
That rugged, yet simple design, has truly stood the test of time.
(Copyright ©04/2006)
Gethsemane
1914-18
The Garden called Gethsemane
In Picardy it was,
And there the people came to see
The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass -- we used to pass
Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas
Beyond Gethsemane.
The Garden called Gethsemane,
It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
I prayed my cup might pass.
The officer sat on the chair,
The men lay on the grass,
And all the time we halted there
I prayed my cup might pass.
It didn't pass -- it didn't pass --
It didn't pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas
Beyond Gethsemane.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Verses For Alfeo Faggi's Stations Of The Cross
I
HERE Pilate's Court is:
None may clatter nor call
Where the Wolf giving suck
To the Twins glares on all
'Strip Him and scourge Him
Till flesh shows the blood,
And afterwards nail Him
On cross of wood.'
O Lord
Silence in us the condemning word!
II
Heaven witnesseth, but only in the heart
Is any aid:
'They know not what they do,' and then on Him
The Cross is laid
The Cross that's wide and long enough to bear
His flesh and bone:
A spectacle unto the crowded way,
The Man goes on.
The Father's will
May we know also, and may we fulfil!
III
Beneath the load
The knees quail;
The heart pants,
The joints fail;
Almost the bones break;
He faints, his breath being loss;
He sinks beneath the Cross!
May we
Be mindful of this road to Calvary!
IV
Jesus His Mother meets:
She looks on Him and sees
The Saviour in Her Son:
The Angel's word comes back:
Within her heart she says,
'Unto me let this be done!'
Still is she full of grace.
By us, too, be it won
The grace that brings us revelation!
V
'If He should die upon the road
That were a turn of ill:
'Tis fixed the Crucifixion be
Upon that skull-shaped hill.
Ho, man who looks with pity on
The Man we take to death
Bear you the Cross I order it
Until He wins back breath.'
We take
Our hearts being moved, the Cross up for Thy sake!
VI
Down to her face His face He bends:
The helper she, the heartner:
His image in her cloth He leaves;
He leaves it, too, to all like her
Who serve within a little room,
But run to help outside the door,
Who mend and brighten needed things:
He leaves it to good hearts, the Poor!
May we, too, wait,
Like her, and help, and be compassionate!
VII
The Spirit is willing aye,
But weak the flesh put on;
Deadly the Cross's weight;
He stumbles on a stone,
And lies upon the road,
Seeing His Body's blood.
May we
Forget not in these times that agony!
VIII
Heavy the Cross is:
He drags beneath its beam,
Yet, Women of Jerusalem,
Weep not for Him:
Weep for your children, rather,
For that they cannot see
The true Son of David,
The Saviour, shown ye.
O Lord,
Also to us say the revealing word!
IX
The skull-shaped hill is near:
The earth and heaven are bare
Of light, and sight, and sound;
He falls upon the ground,
Knowing that journey's end
Without one to befriend.
O Lord
Bring us to Life according to Thy word!
X
'Wouldst have me share this cloth,
Dividing it with sword?
Nay, fellow, we will keep it whole,
But hearken to my word:
Behind the Cross the dice
We'll throw; who wins will get
What's high enough in price
To pay a tavern debt.'
The vesture that makes one with Thee our soul,
May we keep whole!
XI
'This thong, I know, will last;
Draw out the arm and make it fast;
Through hand and board with strength
Drive the nail of mickle length.
Now, King of the Jews, in the sun,
Gape, for our work is done.'
God send
That our labours have no evil end!
XII
The birds are flying home,
Now darkened is the sky,
And He hath given up
With that great bitter cry
The ghost, and on the Cross
(His Mother stays by it),
The title rightly His,
KING is writ.
May we draw near
Considering in our hearts what Man is here!
XIII
Though pitiful it is to see
The wounds, the broken Body,
(The Body of Him that was
As fair as lily of the grass!)
Though the brow with thorns is riven,
And a spear through the side is driven,
It was all for our healing done,
Mother, by thy Son!
May we
This Body in its glory come to see!
XIV
Now in the tomb is laid
Who had neither house nor hall,
Who in the wide world walked,
And talked with one and all;
Who told the sparrow's worth,
The lily's praises said,
Who kept wakeful in the garden
Now in the tomb is laid.
His Spirit still doth move
On a new way of love!
L'ENVOI
Prince, by thine own darkened hour,
Live within me, heart and brain;
Let my hands not slip the rein!
Ah, how long ago the hour
Since a comrade rode with me:
Now, a moment, let me see
Thyself, lonely in the dark,
Perfect, without wound nor mark!
poem by Padraic Colum
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An Indestructible Tree.
Rugged desert_
an unbriddled melancholy wind blows
Scattering sparks of fire,
There is no tree in Shatil Arab,
only the simoom’s voice moans all around.
In the palace of the Sheikh, though,
a few khayyamesque gardens exist
on whose blue carpets you’ll find
the finest wine of the world
and an enamoured saki with her lovely eyes.
Oblivious of his tent and the far away horizon’s call
the intrepid Bedouin has taken refuge
in the soft white abode of sex
in the Sheikh’s khayyamesque gardens.
Outside all trees have been singed by fire,
not even a cactus grows
in the barren land.
And yet an indestructible tree stands there
in the bronze-hot red soil of burning Palestine,
a miracle-tree with soft and green and serene
and large leaves.
All the good winds of the world
blow on that tree,
all the birds of the world sing there
with the tune of the seven seas on their lips.
In the murmuring leaves of this tree
only one tune plays
only one symphony,
only one sacred hymn,
only the undying joy
of men gathered on a temporary sojourn
expressed in their cry;
Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!
Because of this the dark hand of the demon
rises from the setting sun
bent on destroying that tree.
They wont let a single tree live
in the third world.
And so, the arrogant demon blasts
the heart of this tree into shreds.
Missile after missile from their F16 military planes
hit the trunk of this tree
tearing it asunder,
and yet this tree does not die.
Hundreds and hundreds of Palestinians
pour on it their holy and fertile blood
in a bid to keep it alive.
The demon’s dark hands turn red
with the blood of the heroic martyrs.
Shunts of condemnation fill the air.
And their angry planes return to camp
after the onslaught is over.
But the indestructible tree still stands
and keep awake.
Breathing in the unlimited cool breeze of the sea
the tender young leaves of the indestructible tree
recites in silence the sacred incantation
of Freedom.
This indestructible tree will not die, never ever.
This indestructible tree cannot die.
-
poem by Shafiqul Islam
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Dead Boy
The little cousin is dead, by foul subtraction,
A green bough from Virginia's aged tree,
And none of the county kin like the transaction,
Nor some of the world of outer dark, like me.
A boy not beautiful, nor good, nor clever,
A black cloud full of storms too hot for keeping,
A sword beneath his mother's heart—yet never
Woman bewept her babe as this is weeping.
A pig with a pasty face, so I had said,
Squealing for cookies, kinned by poor pretense
With a noble house. But the little man quite dead,
I see the forbears' antique lineaments.
The elder men have strode by the box of death
To the wide flag porch, and muttering low send round
The bruit of the day. O friendly waste of breath!
Their hearts are hurt with a deep dynastic wound.
He was pale and little, the foolish neighbors say;
The first-fruits, saith the Preacher, the Lord hath taken;
But this was the old tree's late branch wrenched away,
Grieving the sapless limbs, the short and shaken.
poem by John Crowe Ransom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lord Robert
Tall and young and light of tongue,
Gallantly riding by wood and lea,
He was ware of a maiden fair
And turned and whispered, 'Remember me.'
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;
Under their feet where the cross-roads meet
Dost thou think I can lie and lie,
Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert?)
Day by day she walks that way
Never hoping by wood or lea
To be ware of the stranger gay
Who turned and whispered, 'Remember me.'
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;
Under their feet where the cross-roads meet
Dost thou think I can lie and lie,
Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert?
Chance for chance he rides that way,
And again by wood or by lea
He was ware of the maiden fair,
And again he whispered, 'Remember me.'
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;
Under their feet where the cross-roads meet
Dost thou think I can lie and lie,
Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert?)
Chance for chance that way rode he,
And again where he was ware,
Debonnair to that maiden fair
He turned and said, 'You remember me.'
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;
Under their feet where the cross-roads meet
Dost thou think I can lie and lie,
Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert?)
Chance for chance on a summer-day,
Meeting her still by wood and lea,
He leaped gay from his gallant grey
And said, 'I see you remember me.'
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;
Under their feet where the cross-roads meet
Dost thou think I can lie and lie,
Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert?)
Chance for chance when they hap'd to meet
He pressed on her lip, he breathed in her ear,
Dear dear words and kisses sweet,
Words and kisses too sweet, too dear.
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;
Under their feet where the cross-roads meet,
Dost thou think I can lie and lie,
Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert?)
When the morn enchants the east,
When the south is dazed with noon,
When the eve weeps to the west,
When the night beguiles the moon,
The maid moon that sat so lowly,
Sat so lowly with bended head,
Sat so lowly and rose so slowly,
Rose so slowly and walked so lowly,
Ever, ever with bended head,
Till the black, black hour of the starless sky,
The black, black hour and the dark, dark bed,
And live maids weep as they turn in their sleep,
Weep in their sleep and know not why,
And the white owls shriek and the dead men croon.
Now all ye gentlemen, grand and gay,
When you meet a maid by wood or lea,
Sir Knight, I pray, ride on thy way,
Nor turn and whisper, 'Remember me.'
Lest you drink no wine so strong or fine
But out of the cup, like a shell of the sea,
Thou shalt learn how slaves from their wormy graves
Can do that bidding, 'Remember me.'
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;
Under their feet where the cross-roads meet
Dost thou think I can lie and lie,
Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert?)
Lest never in hall when the knights stand tall
And the goblets flash and the ladies shine,
And thou risest up the king of them all,
To drink to wassail and woman and wine,
Risest up with thy jewelled cup,
But out of the cup, like the sea in a shell,
A voice thou hast known by hill and wood,
A voice, a voice thou hast known too well!
And the cold wine boils on the lip like blood,
And the blood streams cold to the heart like wine,
Cold and hot to the heart like wine.
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;
Under their feet where the cross-roads meet
Dost thou think I can lie and lie,
Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert?)
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Cross Of Christ
The jeering crowd like jackals stood,
To see what must be done.
Though once they thought this man was good,
They didn't see God's Son.
They called Him Rabbi, Teacher, Lord,
Yet now He was Rome's slave.
So all His claims were now ignored,
For who was He to save?
The nails were driven deep inside...
More drops of blood soon fell...
Once lifted, hoisted, crucified,
His life was just like Hell.
Torment and torture lay ahead.
Excruciating pain.
His scourged back stung and bled and bled
As briars bruised His brain.
His mother wept each passing hour.
'Dear God, have pity, please! '
And yet there came no sign of power,
No rescue, no release.
The soldiers gambled for His clothes.
One wash and they'd be clean.
His life and death the Father chose,
Thus stays the Nazarene.
'It is finished! ' the Saviour screamed
With one great final sigh...
Though not defeated as it seemed,
For Jesus had to die.
To think, the Holy Spirit shares
Forgiveness in His Name!
No other man on Earth compares.
Not one could do the same.
For all have sinned and gone astray
Like sheep in darkest night.
But blessed are they that find the Way
And walk within His light...
He died for you. He died for me.
God's Son fulfilled God's plan.
From Calvary came clemency!
Behold the Son of Man!
Behold the blood! Behold the Lord!
For this man was the Christ!
The Lamb of God! His heart outpoured!
The Saviour sacrificed!
Oh, who can count the callous sins
That Jesus suffered for?
Behold the precious Prince of Peace,
The King of Love and more!
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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