In Due Observance Of An Ancient Rite
IN due observance of an ancient rite,
The rude Biscayans, when their children lie
Dead in the sinless time of infancy,
Attire the peaceful corse in vestments white;
And, in like sign of cloudless triumph bright,
They bind the unoffending creature's brows
With happy garlands of the pure white rose:
Then do a festal company unite
In choral song; and, while the uplifted cross
Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne
Uncovered to his grave: 'tis closed,--her loss
The Mother 'then' mourns, as she needs must mourn;
But soon, through Christian faith, is grief subdued;
And joy returns, to brighten fortitude.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Feelings Of A Noble Biscayan At One Of Those Funerals
YET, yet, Biscayans! we must meet our Foes
With firmer soul, yet labour to regain
Our ancient freedom; else 'twere worse than vain
To gather round the bier these festal shows.
A garland fashioned of the pure white rose
Becomes not one whose father is a slave:
Oh, bear the infant covered to his grave!
These venerable mountains now enclose
A people sunk in apathy and fear.
If this endure, farewell, for us, all good!
The awful light of heavenly innocence
Will fail to illuminate the infant's bier;
And guilt and shame, from which is no defence,
Descend on all that issues from our blood.
poem by William Wordsworth
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I Believe In Jesus
Ran into mother mary down on line
Street in l.a.
She was preaching the gospel
She was singing how jesus saves
When a crowd of passing tourists
Looked to see what they could see
You know before they know it she had
Them all down on their knees
I believe in jesus you know I know him
Oh so well
And Im going to heaven by and by
cause I already been through hell
I believe in jesus, in jesus, in jesus
I believe in jesus, in jesus
So onward christian soldiers still
Marching as to war
With the cross of jesus just going on before
Now jesus was a little lamb, his fleece
Was white as snow
And every where that jesus went
This lamb is sure to go
Well I believe in jesus you know I know him
Oh so well
And Im going to heaven by and by
cause I saved my soul from going to hell
I believe in jesus, in jesus, in jesus
I believe in jesus, in jesus
Look at the sheep cause theyre
Running fast
They wanna make it through the gates
At last
So onward christian soldiers still
Marching as to war
With the cross of jesus just going on before
I believe in jesus, in jesus
I believe in jesus, in jesus.....
song performed by by Donna Summer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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God's Acre
’NEATH the spiring of spruces
Above the blue sea,
Lo, a field of white crosses,
A garden of grief!
—And a riot of roses,
Of red and white roses,
Rich Death! all in blossom,
Fair Loss! all in leaf.
Aye, their warm cherub-cheeks
To cold marble they press;
With sweet summer-kisses
Dead names they caress;
Yon tomb, see, all garlands,
All roses this cross!
—So breathe, my lamenting!
So bloom, O my loss!
poem by Blanche Edith Baughan
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A Child's View Of God (A Pure And Simple Faith)
There is nothing so innocent as a child
With eyes closed and head bowed in prayer
With a pure and simple faith
He gives thanks to the God who created him
Not asking complicated questions
But seeing God in the wonders that abound each day
Knowing Jesus loves him
And that's enough for now
We all need to be like children
In our hearts
Finding Joy and wonder
In the flowers and the sun of God's creation
Trusting and believing in Jesus
With a pure and simple faith
Jesus came as a child
With all His innocence and wonder of life
As He grew He still had
The innocence and wonder of God's creation
He loved us and died for us
So that we could believe in Him
With a pure and simple faith
Onward Christian Soldiers
Onward, Christian soldiers,
Marching as to war,
With the Cross of Jesus
Going on before.
Christ the royal Master
Leads against the foe;
Forward into battle,
See, his banners go!
Onward, Christian soldiers,
Marching as to war,
With the Cross of Jesus
Going on before.
At the sign of triumph
Satan's legions flee;
On then, Christian soldiers,
On to victory.
Hell's foundations quiver
At the shout of praise;
Brothers, lift your voices,
Loud your anthems raise.
Like a mighty army
Moves the Church of God;
Brothers, we are treading
Where the Saints have trod;
We are not divided,
All one body we,
One in hope and doctrine
One in charity:
Crowns and thorns may perish,
Kingdoms rise and wane,
But the Church of Jesus
Constant will remain;
Gates of hell can never
'Gainst that Church prevail;
We have Christ's own promise,
And that cannot fail.
Onward, then, ye people,
Join our happy throng,
Blend with ours your voices
In the triumph song;
Glory, laud and honour
Unto Christ the King;
This through countless ages
Men and Angels sing.
Onward, Christian soldiers,
Marching as to war,
With the Cross of Jesus
Going on before.
poem by Sabine Baring-Gould
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The Great Folly
all children
of a pleasure
seeking age
seeking
painless lives
and yet
be christian
ignoring the fruit
of the
gospel page
that Christ
crucified
is our salvation
to accept Christ
is to accept
the cross
our rose is
accompanied
by the thorn
by the
cancer cell
or the
painful loss
this is the path
of those reborn
no neurotic
searching
or hoping
for pain
but peaceful
acceptance
if it be our lot
willing his will
as we bear
his name
let this be
the spirit
of our thought
the cross
is Jesus
and he is
the cross
viewed by many
as the great folly
but in rejection
it is their loss
as unto death
we travel daily
poem by Liam ó Comáin
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Sign On The Cross
by Bob Dylan
Now, I try, oh for so awf'ly long
And I just try to be.
And now, oh it's a gold mine
But it's so fine.
Yes, but I know in my head
That we're all so misled,
And it's that ol' sign on the cross
That worries me.
Now, when I was just a bawlin' child,
I saw what I wanted to be,
And it's all for the sake
Of that picture I should see.
But I was lost on the moon
As I heard that front door slam,
And that old sign on the cross
Still worries me.
Well, it's that old sign on the cross,
Well, it's that old key to the kingdom,
Well, it's that old sign on the cross
Like you used to be.
But, when I hold my head so high
As I see my ol' friends go by,
And it's still that sign on the cross
That worries me.
Well, it seems to be the sign on the cross. Ev'ry day,
ev'ry night, see the sign on the cross just layin' up
on top of the hill. Yes, we thought it might have
disappeared long ago, but I'm here to tell you, friends,
that I'm afraid it's lyin' there still. Yes, just a
little time is all you need, you might say, but I don't
know 'bout that any more, because the bird is here and
you might want to enter it, but, of course, the door might
be closed. But I just would like to tell you one time,
if I don't see you again, that the thing is, that the sign
on the cross is the thing you might need the most.
Yes, the sign on the cross
Is just a sign on the cross.
Well, there is some on every chisel
And there is some in the championship, too.
Oh, when your, when your days are numbered
And your nights are long,
You might think you're weak
But I mean to say you're strong.
Yes you are, if that sign on the cross,
If it begins to worry you.
Well, that's all right because sing a song
And all your troubles will pass right on through.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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White rose, red
Take my white rose
White rose, red
Love everlasting
Even when dead
Kiss my white rose
White rose, red
In which love flows
In what is said
Cry on my white rose
White rose, red
Always there to be with you
And comfort you when sad
Love my white rose
White rose, red
So I may forever be with you
Loving you with the symbol
White rose...
White rose stained blood red
(Xanxus)
poem by Giotto Vongola
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The Fairy Bridal-Hymn
[This is the hymn to Eleanor, daughter of Mab and a golden drone, sung by the Locust choir when the fairy child marries her God, the yellow rose]
This is a song to the white-armed one
Cold in the breast as the frost-wrapped Spring,
Whose feet are slow on the hills of life,
Whose round mouth rules by whispering.
This is a song to the white-armed one
Whose breast shall burn as a Summer field,
Whose wings shall rise to the doors of gold,
Whose poppy lips to the God shall yield.
This is a song to the white-armed one
When the closing rose shall bind her fast,
And a song of the song their blood shall sing,
When the Rose-God drinks her soul at last.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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The White Rose o' June
Air - 'Voice of Spring.'
Now the bricht sun, and the soft simmer showers,
Deck a' the woods and the gardens wi' flowers;
But bonny and sweet though the hale o' them be,
There's ane aboon a' that is dearest to me;
An' oh, that's the white rose, the white rose o' June,
An' may
he
that should wear it come back again sune!
It's no on my breast, nor yet in my hair,
That emblem dear I venture to wear;
But it blooms in my heart, and its white leaves I weet,
When alane in the gloamin' I wander to greet,
O'er the white rose, the white rose, the white rose o' June,
An' may
he
that should wear it come back again sune!
Mair fragrant and rich the red rose may be,
But there is nae spell to bind it to me;
But dear to my heart and to fond memorie,
Tho' scathed and tho' blighted the white rose may be.
O the white rose, the white rose, the white rose o' June,
O may
he
that should wear it come back again sune!
An' oh! may the true hearts thy perils who share,
Remember'd wi' tears, and remember'd in prayer,
Whom misfortune's rude blast has sent far awa',
Fair breezes bring back sune to cottage and ha';-
Then, O sing the white rose, the white rose o' June,
An' may
he
that should wear it wear Scotland's auld croun!
poem by Carolina Oliphant
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Old Ireland
FAR hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
Crouching over a grave, an ancient, sorrowful mother,
Once a queen--now lean and tatter'd, seated on the ground,
Her old white hair drooping dishevel'd round her shoulders;
At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,
Long silent--she too long silent--mourning her shrouded hope and
heir;
Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because most full of
love.
Yet a word, ancient mother;
You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground, with forehead
between your knees;
O you need not sit there, veil'd in your old white hair, so
dishevel'd; 10
For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave;
It was an illusion--the heir, the son you love, was not really dead;
The Lord is not dead--he is risen again, young and strong, in another
country;
Even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the grave,
What you wept for, was translated, pass'd from the grave,
The winds favor'd, and the sea sail'd it,
And now with rosy and new blood,
Moves to-day in a new country.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Christmas
WITH garlands to grace it, with laughter to greet it,
Christmas is here, holly-red and snow-white,
Hung round with quaint legends, and old-as-life stories
Of mystical beauty and lifelong delight;
With dreams of the Christ-child, with Santa Claus fables,
Without doubts to trouble or questions to break
The absolute faith in the triumph of goodness,
In God and in nature on guard for its sake;
Without fear of death, with no memories of grief,
Believing life clear as our cloudless belief;
What wonder if rose-coloured Christmas appear
As the happiest day of our happy child year?
With the swiftness of thought, with the spring's incompleteness,
Childhood has passed, and its place is filled up;
Hope suns our youth into midsummer sweetness,
And the roses of love wreathe our life's golden cup.
We shall do--we shall dare--and our faith has no limit,
Wrong must go down 'neath the sword of the right
And life is so joyous, and may be so glorious,
And day looks so long, and so distant the night.
We love--there are chances--and if we should meet
The woman who holds all our heart at her feet
At Christmas--would that not make Christmas more dear
Than all other days of our love-lightened year?
With the sadness of tears, with the speed of the swallow,
Youth has gone by, and its hope and its faith;
Love has grown into grief, and remembrance is anguish,
And down the dim years sound the footsteps of death.
There sit at our feast (for we still hold our revels)
The phantom of hope and the spectre of truth.
This life we believed in--how has it rewarded
The passionate faith of our long-ago youth?
Our hearth is deserted--our Christmas Day seems
But the ghost of a day from a lifetime of dreams.
Oh, lost voices that call us--we hear you--we hear!
Oh, most desolate day of our desolate year!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Satan Was Head Bruised At Calvary
Satan was head bruised at Calvary
Satan was defeated when Jesus
rose from the dead the final blow
will be defeat submission of Satan
when Jesus Christ returns in glory
Revelation 20: 1-15.
'And the God of peace will soon
crush Satan under your feet.
The grace of the Lord Jesus be with you.'
Romans 16: 20.
keep Christian faith under persecution
hope of salvation and sanctification
are promised to God's faithful people
poem by Terence George Craddock
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White rose, red
Take my white rose
White rose, red
Love everlasting
Even when dead
Kiss my white rose
White rose, red
In which love flows
In what is said
Cry on my white rose
White rose, red
Always there to be with you
Always there to be with you sad
Love my white rose
White rose, red
So I may forever be with you
So I may forever dream with you
So I may forever love with you
All in the symbol
White rose....White rose stained red
poem by Trey Mitchell
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Dirge For The Year
I.
Orphan Hours, the Year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!
Merry Hours, smile instead,
For the Year is but asleep.
See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping.
II.
As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,
So White Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the death-cold Year to-day;
Solemn Hours! wail aloud
For your mother in her shroud.
III.
As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days
Rocks the Year:—be calm and mild,
Trembling Hours, she will arise
With new love within her eyes.
IV.
January gray is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps--but, O ye Hours!
Follow with May's fairest flowers.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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The Sign of Jonah
In the tomb for three days, but, He’d rise to the Father’s praise,
For three days and three nights, in that dark tomb, out of sight,
The Son of God, sent to save, now lay dead down in the grave,
For indeed, Christ was dead, the hope of many turned to dread.
It was Jonah Christ pointed to, regarding all that God would do,
In the belly of a fish for a time, three days and nights for a sign,
After taken off that wicked tree, in the earth’s belly He would be,
Christ’s body in a tomb would lay, but, as He said, it didn’t stay.
Disciples scattered by the cross, now discouraged and felt lost,
It was truly a dark time for those, before The Lord had truly rose,
From the cross to that tomb, His followers now filled with doom,
What occurred caused much grief, filling all hearts with disbelief.
Their disbelief would take a turn, as all failing hearts would learn,
That Christ did just what He said, and Jesus was no longer dead,
Alive and here just like before, was Jesus Christ, The Risen Lord,
Back again, their Lord and friend, for that grave was not His end.
Just as the fish spit Jonah out; The Lord would have a turnabout,
Now risen by His own decree, was Christ, the Savior of humanity,
Now restored to God’s right hand, Lord and Savior of every land,
God’s Proven Hope to all nations, of His One and Only Salvation.
(Copyright ©04/2009)
There Is a River We All Must Cross
There is a river we all must cross,
Thousands will pass it tomorrow;
Some will go down to its waters with joy,
Others with anguish and sorrow.
Some will be welcom'd by angel bands,
Coming from over the river;
Others be borne by the current adown,
Where there is none to deliver.
These shall land safely in Eden's bow'rs,
Wearing the white robes of pardon;
Those shall be cast on a desolate shore,
Far from the gates of the garden.
These shall have voices to join the song
Ever from Eden ascending;
Those shall unite in the wailings of woe
Woe, that hath never an ending.
Over the river we all must cross,
Jesus may call us tomorrow;
Shall we go down to its waters with joy?
Shall we with anguish and sorrow?
poem by Henry Clay Work
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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXXVIII
I saw one sitting on a kingly throne,
A man of age, whom Time had touched with white;
White were his brows, and white his vestment shone,
And white the childhood of his lips with light,
Only his eyes gleamed masterful and bright,
Holding the secrets shut of worlds unknown,
And in his hand the sceptre lay of might,
To bind and loose all souls beneath the sun.
Where is the manhood, where the Godhood here?
The weak things of the world confound the wise.
Here is all weakness, let us cast out fear.
Here is all strength. Ah, screen me from those eyes,
The terrible eyes of Him who sees unseen
The thing that is, and shall be, and has been.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Margaret's Bridal Eve
I
The old grey mother she thrummed on her knee:
There is a rose that's ready;
And which of the handsome young men shall it be?
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
My daughter, come hither, come hither to me:
There is a rose that's ready;
Come, point me your finger on him that you see:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O mother, my mother, it never can be:
There is a rose that's ready;
For I shall bring shame on the man marries me:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
Now let your tongue be deep as the sea:
There is a rose that's ready;
And the man'll jump for you, right briskly will he:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
Tall Margaret wept bitterly:
There is a rose that's ready;
And as her parent bade did she:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O the handsome young man dropped down on his knee:
There is a rose that's ready;
Pale Margaret gave him her hand, woe's me!
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
II
O mother, my mother, this thing I must say:
There is a rose in the garden;
Ere he lies on the breast where that other lay:
And the bird sings over the roses.
Now, folly, my daughter, for men are men:
There is a rose in the garden;
You marry them blindfold, I tell you again:
And the bird sings over the roses.
O mother, but when he kisses me!
There is a rose in the garden;
My child, 'tis which shall sweetest be!
And the bird sings over the roses.
O mother, but when I awake in the morn!
There is a rose in the garden;
My child, you are his, and the ring is worn:
And the bird sings over the roses.
Tall Margaret sighed and loosened a tress:
There is a rose in the garden;
Poor comfort she had of her comeliness
And the bird sings over the roses.
My mother will sink if this thing be said:
There is a rose in the garden;
That my first betrothed came thrice to my bed;
And the bird sings over the roses.
He died on my shoulder the third cold night:
There is a rose in the garden;
I dragged his body all through the moonlight:
And the bird sings over the roses.
But when I came by my father's door:
There is a rose in the garden;
I fell in a lump on the stiff dead floor:
And the bird sings over the roses.
O neither to heaven, nor yet to hell:
There is a rose in the garden;
Could I follow the lover I loved so well!
And the bird sings over the roses.
III
The bridesmaids slept in their chambers apart:
There is a rose that's ready;
Tall Margaret walked with her thumping heart:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
The frill of her nightgown below the left breast:
There is a rose that's ready;
Had fall'n like a cloud of the moonlighted West:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
But where the West-cloud breaks to a star:
There is a rose that's ready;
Pale Margaret's breast showed a winding scar:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O few are the brides with such a sign!
There is a rose that's ready;
Though I went mad the fault was mine:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
I must speak to him under this roof to-night:
There is a rose that's ready;
I shall burn to death if I speak in the light:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O my breast! I must strike you a bloodier wound:
There is a rose that's ready;
Than when I scored you red and swooned:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
I will stab my honour under his eye:
There is a rose that's ready;
Though I bleed to the death, I shall let out the lie:
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O happy my bridesmaids! white sleep is with you!
There is a rose that's ready;
Had he chosen among you he might sleep too!
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O happy my bridesmaids! your breasts are clean:
There is a rose that's ready;
You carry no mark of what has been!
There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
IV
An hour before the chilly beam:
Red rose and white in the garden;
The bridegroom started out of a dream:
And the bird sings over the roses.
He went to the door, and there espied:
Red rose and white in the garden;
The figure of his silent bride:
And the bird sings over the roses.
He went to the door, and let her in:
Red rose and white in the garden;
Whiter looked she than a child of sin:
And the bird sings over the roses.
She looked so white, she looked so sweet:
Red rose and white in the garden;
She looked so pure he fell at her feet:
And the bird sings over the roses.
He fell at her feet with love and awe:
Red rose and white in the garden;
A stainless body of light he saw:
And the bird sings over the roses.
O Margaret, say you are not of the dead!
Red rose and white in the garden;
My bride! by the angels at night are you led?
And the bird sings over the roses.
I am not led by the angels about:
Red rose and white in the garden;
But I have a devil within to let out:
And the bird sings over the roses.
O Margaret! my bride and saint!
Red rose and white in the garden;
There is on you no earthly taint:
And the bird sings over the roses.
I am no saint, and no bride can I be:
Red rose and while in the garden;
Until I have opened my bosom to thee:
And the bird sings over the roses.
To catch at her heart she laid one hand:
Red rose and white in the garden;
She told the tale where she did stand:
And the bird sings over the roses.
She stood before him pale and tall:
Red rose and white in the garden;
Her eyes between his, she told him all:
And the bird sings over the roses.
She saw how her body grow freckled and foul:
Red rose and white in the garden;
She heard from the woods the hooting owl:
And the bird sings over the roses.
With never a quiver her mouth did speak:
Red rose and white in the garden;
O when she had done she stood so meek!
And the bird sings over the roses.
The bridegroom stamped and called her vile:
Red rose and white in the garden;
He did but waken a little smile:
And the bird sings over the roses.
The bridegroom raged and called her foul:
Red rose and white in the garden;
She heard from the woods the hooting owl:
And the bird sings over the roses.
He muttered a name full bitter and sore:
Red rose and white in the garden;
She fell in a lump on the still dead floor:
And the bird sings over the roses.
O great was the wonder, and loud the wail:
Red rose and white in the garden;
When through the household flew the tale:
And the bird sings over the roses.
The old grey mother she dressed the bier:
Red rose and white in the garden;
With a shivering chin and never a tear:
And the bird sings over the roses.
O had you but done as I bade you, my child!
Red rose and white in the garden;
You would not have died and been reviled:
And the bird sings over the roses.
The bridegroom he hung at midnight by the bier:
Red rose and white in the garden;
He eyed the white girl thro' a dazzling tear:
And the bird sings over the roses.
O had you been false as the women who stray:
Red rose and white in the garden;
You would not be now with the Angels of Day!
And the bird sings over the roses.
poem by George Meredith
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In Sorrow
In sorrow
She mourns her beloved son
What's next to follow
No one knows
In sorrow
He mourns his beloved daughter
What's next to follow
His heart is hollow
In sorrow
She mourns her beloved husband
What's next to follow
She is now a widow
In sorrow
He mourns his beloved wife
What's next to follow
His desire for life is renounced to zero
In sorrow
They mourn the passing of a dear friend
Someone they wished to be there tomorrow
It hurts without pretext, whatever sorrow sends
And we know and I know
Sorrow returns not the life's it borrows
Sorrow is a walking deadly shadow
Sorrow is the virus we dread tomorrow
Sorrow is the devils spell of lethal horrors
Therefore my dear fellows
In sorrow no more I mourn her sorrow
In sorrow
I have closed on her all my doors and windows
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
www.sylviachidi.co.uk
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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