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Best Famous Christian Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Christian poems. This is a select list of the best famous Christian poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Christian poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of christian poems.

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Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | |

The Problem

I LIKE a church; I like a cowl; 
I love a prophet of the soul; 
And on my heart monastic aisles 
Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles; 
Yet not for all his faith can see 5 
Would I that cowl¨¨d churchman be.
Why should the vest on him allure Which I could not on me endure? Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; 10 Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle: Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old; The litanies of nations came 15 Like the volcano's tongue of flame Up from the burning core below ¡ª The canticles of love and woe; The hand that rounded Peter's dome And groined the aisles of Christian Rome 20 Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew;¡ª The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest 25 Of leaves and feathers from her breast? Or how the fish outbuilt her shell Painting with morn each annual cell? Or how the sacred pine tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? 30 Such and so grew these holy piles Whilst love and terror laid the tiles.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon As the best gem upon her zone; And Morning opes with haste her lids 35 To gaze upon the Pyramids; O'er England's abbeys bends the sky As on its friends with kindred eye; For out of Thought's interior sphere These wonders rose to upper air; 40 And Nature gladly gave them place Adopted them into her race And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass; 45 Art might obey but not surpass.
The passive Master lent his hand To the vast soul that o'er him planned; And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.
50 Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host Trances the heart through chanting choirs And through the priest the mind inspires.
The word unto the prophet spoken 55 Was writ on tables yet unbroken; The word by seers or sibyls told In groves of oak or fanes of gold Still floats upon the morning wind Still whispers to the willing mind.
60 One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost.
I know what say the fathers wise ¡ª The Book itself before me lies ¡ª Old Chrysostom best Augustine 65 And he who blent both in his line The younger Golden Lips or mines Taylor the Shakespeare of divines.
His words are music in my ear I see his cowl¨¨d portrait dear; 70 And yet for all his faith could see I would not this good bishop be.


Written by Wallace Stevens | |

The High-Toned Old Christian Woman

Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it And from the nave build haunted heaven.
Thus, The conscience is converted into palms, Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle.
That's clear.
But take The opposing law and make a peristyle, And from the peristyle project a masque Beyond the planets.
Thus, our bawdiness, Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last, Is equally converted into palms, Squiggling like saxophones.
And palm for palm, Madame, we are where we began.
Allow, Therefore, that in the planetary scene Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed, Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade, Proud of such novelties of the sublime, Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk, May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince.
But fictive things Wink as they will.
Wink most when widows wince.


Written by D A Levy | |

Reality Jew

When i was a little kid
my parents never told me
i didn't find out until
i got out of high school
then when people asked me,
I ASKED THEM,
"Nationality or Religion?"

When i was a little kid
my parents brought me up as a christian
that when i discovered,
i was different
i wasnt THAT sick!
so at sixteen
still being a virgin forest
i decided
i must be a buddhist monk,
Then when people asked me
I TOLD THEM, i told them
"Not me, man, i don't belong to No-thing

In the navy
a swabby once asked me,
if i wanted to go to the
temple with him,
i told him
"NOt me, man, im the last
of the full blooded american indians.
" it became confusing so after a while when people inquired "Hey.
.
ah.
.
you arnt……are you?" i answered, "with a name like levy, what the hell do you think i am?" A Ritz Cracker? A flying bathtub? An arab? etc.
But now its getting pretty hip to be a jew and some of my best friend are becoming converted to halavah, even the crones who suddenly became World War 2 catholics are now praising bagels & lox i still dont feel on ethnic things like "Ok, we all niggers so lets hold hands.
" & "OK, we're all wops so lets support the mafia," & "Ok, we're all jews so lets weep on each others shoulders.
" so now when people smile and say, "Hey, you're one of us," i smile and say, "Fuck you, man, im still alive.
"


More great poems below...

Written by Christian Bobin | |

The Beautiful Gown

The one we love, she appears before us undressed.
She is in a light dress, like those that once flourished on Sundays on church porches and the parquets of ballrooms.
And yet she is naked - like a star at the breaking of day.
Seeing you there, a clearing opened in my eyes.
To see that white dress, as white as blue sky.
By looking to the essential, the purity of the world is reborn.
Christian Bobin (translated by C.
Johnston)


Written by Christian Bobin | |

untitled

Into the crucible of my solitude, 
you enter like the dawn, you surge forward like fire.
You sweep into my soul like a river bursting its banks.
And your laughter floods all my lands.
When I looked deep inside myself, I found nothing: there, where everything was dark, a huge sun was turning.
There where everything was dead, a small spring was dancing.
A tiny woman who took up so much space: I could not believe it.
Love is the only true knowledge.
Love itself is an impenetrable mystery.
Christian Bobin (translated by C.
Johnston)


Written by Robert Penn Warren | |

True Love

 In silence the heart raves.
It utters words Meaningless, that never had A meaning.
I was ten, skinny, red-headed, Freckled.
In a big black Buick, Driven by a big grown boy, with a necktie, she sat In front of the drugstore, sipping something Through a straw.
There is nothing like Beauty.
It stops your heart.
It Thickens your blood.
It stops your breath.
It Makes you feel dirty.
You need a hot bath.
I leaned against a telephone pole, and watched.
I thought I would die if she saw me.
How could I exist in the same world with that brightness? Two years later she smiled at me.
She Named my name.
I thought I would wake up dead.
Her grown brothers walked with the bent-knee Swagger of horsemen.
They were slick-faced.
Told jokes in the barbershop.
Did no work.
Their father was what is called a drunkard.
Whatever he was he stayed on the third floor Of the big white farmhouse under the maples for twenty-five years.
He never came down.
They brought everything up to him.
I did not know what a mortgage was.
His wife was a good, Christian woman, and prayed.
When the daughter got married, the old man came down wearing An old tail coat, the pleated shirt yellowing.
The sons propped him.
I saw the wedding.
There were Engraved invitations, it was so fashionable.
I thought I would cry.
I lay in bed that night And wondered if she would cry when something was done to her.
The mortgage was foreclosed.
That last word was whispered.
She never came back.
The family Sort of drifted off.
Nobody wears shiny boots like that now.
But I know she is beautiful forever, and lives In a beautiful house, far away.
She called my name once.
I didn't even know she knew it.


Written by Naomi Shihab Nye | |

Half-And-Half

 You can't be, says a Palestinian Christian
on the first feast day after Ramadan.
So, half-and-half and half-and-half.
He sells glass.
He knows about broken bits, chips.
If you love Jesus you can't love anyone else.
Says he.
At his stall of blue pitchers on the Via Dolorosa, he's sweeping.
The rubbed stones feel holy.
Dusting of powdered sugar across faces of date-stuffed mamool.
This morning we lit the slim white candles which bend over at the waist by noon.
For once the priests weren't fighting in the church for the best spots to stand.
As a boy, my father listened to them fight.
This is partly why he prays in no language but his own.
Why I press my lips to every exception.
A woman opens a window—here and here and here— placing a vase of blue flowers on an orange cloth.
I follow her.
She is making a soup from what she had left in the bowl, the shriveled garlic and bent bean.
She is leaving nothing out.


Written by James Henry Leigh Hunt | |

The Negro Boy

 Paupertas onus visa est grave.
Cold blows the wind, and while the tear Bursts trembling from my swollen eyes, The rain's big drop, quick meets it there, And on my naked bosom flies! O pity, all ye sons of Joy, The little wand'ring Negro-boy.
These tatter'd clothes, this ice-cold breast By Winter harden'd into steel, These eyes, that know not soothing rest, But speak the half of what I feel! Long, long, I never new one joy, The little wand'ring Negro-boy! Cannot the sigh of early grief Move but one charitable mind? Cannot one hand afford relief? One Christian pity, and be kind? Weep, weep, for thine was never joy, O little wand'ring Negro-boy! Is there a good which men call Pleasure? O Ozmyn, would that it were thine! Give me this only precious treasure; How it would soften grief like mine! Then Ozmyn might be call'd, with joy, The little wand'ring Negro-boy! My limbs these twelve long years have borne The rage of ev'ry angry wind: Yet still does Ozmyn weep and mourn, Yet still no ease, no rest can find! Then death, alas, must soon destroy The little wand'ring Negro-boy! No sorrow e'er disturbs the rest, That dwells within the lonely grave; Thou best resource, the wo-wrung breast E'er ask'd of Heav'n, or Heav'n e'er gave! Ah then, farewell, vain world, with joy I die the happy Negro-boy!


Written by Sir Philip Sidney | |

Sonnet XXX: Whether the Turkish New Moon

 Whether the Turkish new moon minded be 
To fill his horns this year on Christian coast; 
How Poles' right king means, with leave of host, 
To warm with ill-made fire cold Muscovy; 

If French can yet three parts in one agree; 
What now the Dutch in their full diets boast; 
How Holland hearts, now so good towns be lost, 
Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange tree; 

How Ulster likes of that same golden bit 
Wherewith my father once made it half tame; 
If in the Scotch court be no welt'ring yet: 

These questions busy wits to me do frame.
I, cumber'd with good manners, answer do, But know not how, for still I think of you.


Written by Ellis Parker Butler | |

Judgment Day

 Saint Peter stood, at Heaven's gate,
All souls claims to adjudicate
Saying to some souls, "Enter in!"
"Go to Hell," to others, "you are steeped in sin.
" When up from earth, with a great hubbub, Came all the members of the Tuscarora Club.
The angel Gabriel, peering out, Said, "What, the devil, is this noise about?" "Gabe," said Peter, "There's always lots of noise, At any get-together of the Tuscarora boys -- Those are anglers and they all tell lies About the trout that got away, their fierceness and their size -- They want to enter Heaven, for our brooks are full of trout, But I won't have any liars, and I'll keep the whole gang out; No liars enter Heaven, and I'll most distinctly tell The whole danged Tuscarora Club, it has to go to Hell.
" Then, at a little distance from the precious pearly gate, The Tuscarora fellows paused to talk and cogitate; One Barr said this, one Barr said that, McAlpin had his say, But foxy Charley Roberts said, "This is the only way -- "You'd best leave this to me," he said.
"Just let me handle Pete and in a trice we'll be inside upon the golden street; I'll show him that he's one of us, because he used to be, Himself, a brother fisher, in the Sea of Gallilee-- And I move you, Mr.
President, we make the poor old dub An honorary member of the Tuscarora Club.
" "Agreed! Agreed!" the members cried, but Manny Barr said, "Wait! Amend it thus 'PROVIDED -- That he didn't fish with bait.
'" Saint Peter saw them coming but his face was hard and stern, He had formed his resolution from which he would not turn, Not even Roberts' palaver would ever change him so He'd send the Tuscarorans anywhere, but down below.
But now upon his countenance there came a look of pain, He stepped from foot to foot, and then from foot to foot again: He hailed a new-come resident, who near the portal stood, A goodly Christian gentleman, whose name was Hubert Wood.
He said to him, "Come here, my friend, and tend awhile this gate-- Just take my place for half an hour -- I've got to urinate.
" With that Saint Peter hustled off.
The gate-keeper pro tem Observed the Tuscarorans and he waved his hand at them.
"Come in! come in!" he shouted, for he was an angler, too, And he knew that anglers, as a whole, were earth's most harmless crew.
So all the Tuscarorans got to heaven, thanks to Wood, And the Secretary's last report says, "Fishing there is good.
"


Written by Phillis Wheatley | |

To Captain H-----d of the 65th Regiment

 Say, muse divine, can hostile scenes delight
The warrior's bosom in the fields of fight?
Lo! here the christian and the hero join
With mutual grace to form the man divine.
In H-----D see with pleasure and surprise, Where valour kindles, and where virtue lies: Go, hero brave, still grace the post of fame, And add new glories to thine honour'd name, Still to the field, and still to virtue true: Britannia glories in no son like you.


Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Dangerous Things

 Said Myrtias (a Syrian student
in Alexandria; in the reign of
Augustus Constans and Augustus Constantius;
in part a pagan, and in part a christian);
"Fortified by theory and study,
I shall not fear my passions like a coward.
I shall give my body to sensual delights, to enjoyments dreamt-of, to the most daring amorous desires, to the lustful impulses of my blood, without any fear, for whenever I want -- and I shall have the will, fortified as I shall be by theory and study -- at moments of crisis I shall find again my spirit, as before, ascetic.
"


Written by G K Chesterton | |

Antichrist or the Reunion of Christendom: An Ode

 Are they clinging to their crosses,
F.
E.
Smith, Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses, Are they, Smith? Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding, Wait the news from this our city? Groaning "That's the Second Reading!" Hissing "There is still Committee!" If the voice of Cecil falters, If McKenna's point has pith, Do they tremble for their altars? Do they, Smith? Russian peasants round their pope Huddled, Smith, Hear about it all, I hope, Don't they, Smith? In the mountain hamlets clothing Peaks beyond Caucasian pales, Where Establishment means nothing And they never heard of Wales, Do they read it all in Hansard -- With a crib to read it with -- "Welsh Tithes: Dr.
Clifford answered.
" Really, Smith? In the lands where Christians were, F.
E.
Smith, In the little lands laid bare, Smith, O Smith! Where the Turkish bands are busy And the Tory name is blessed Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy On the banners from the West! Men don't think it half so hard if Islam burns their kin and kith, Since a curate lives in Cardiff Saved by Smith.
It would greatly, I must own, Soothe me, Smith! If you left this theme alone, Holy Smith! For your legal cause or civil You fight well and get your fee; For your God or dream or devil You will answer, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples And the cash that goes therewith! But the souls of Christian peoples.
.
.
Chuck it, Smith!


Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Zola

 Because he puts the compromising chart 
Of hell before your eyes, you are afraid; 
Because he counts the price that you have paid 
For innocence, and counts it from the start, 
You loathe him.
But he sees the human heart Of God meanwhile, and in His hand was weighed Your squeamish and emasculate crusade Against the grim dominion of his art.
Never until we conquer the uncouth Connivings of our shamed indifference (We call it Christian faith) are we to scan The racked and shrieking hideousness of Truth To find, in hate’s polluted self-defence Throbbing, the pulse, the divine heart of man.


Written by Friedrich von Schiller | |

Shakespeares Ghost - A Parody

 I, too, at length discerned great Hercules' energy mighty,--
Saw his shade.
He himself was not, alas, to be seen.
Round him were heard, like the screaming of birds, the screams of tragedians, And, with the baying of dogs, barked dramaturgists around.
There stood the giant in all his terrors; his bow was extended, And the bolt, fixed on the string, steadily aimed at the heart.
"What still hardier action, unhappy one, dost thou now venture, Thus to descend to the grave of the departed souls here?"-- "'Tis to see Tiresias I come, to ask of the prophet Where I the buskin of old, that now has vanished, may find?" "If they believe not in Nature, nor the old Grecian, but vainly Wilt thou convey up from hence that dramaturgy to them.
" "Oh, as for Nature, once more to tread our stage she has ventured, Ay, and stark-naked beside, so that each rib we count.
" "What? Is the buskin of old to be seen in truth on your stage, then, Which even I came to fetch, out of mid-Tartarus' gloom?"-- "There is now no more of that tragic bustle, for scarcely Once in a year on the boards moves thy great soul, harness-clad.
" "Doubtless 'tis well! Philosophy now has refined your sensations, And from the humor so bright fly the affections so black.
"-- "Ay, there is nothing that beats a jest that is stolid and barren, But then e'en sorrow can please, if 'tis sufficiently moist.
" "But do ye also exhibit the graceful dance of Thalia, Joined to the solemn step with which Melpomene moves?"-- "Neither! For naught we love but what is Christian and moral; And what is popular, too, homely, domestic, and plain.
" "What? Does no Caesar, does no Achilles, appear on your stage now, Not an Andromache e'en, not an Orestes, my friend?" "No! there is naught to be seen there but parsons, and syndics of commerce, Secretaries perchance, ensigns, and majors of horse.
" "But, my good friend, pray tell me, what can such people e'er meet with That can be truly called great?--what that is great can they do?" "What? Why they form cabals, they lend upon mortgage, they pocket Silver spoons, and fear not e'en in the stocks to be placed.
" "Whence do ye, then, derive the destiny, great and gigantic, Which raises man up on high, e'en when it grinds him to dust?"-- "All mere nonsense! Ourselves, our worthy acquaintances also, And our sorrows and wants, seek we, and find we, too, here.
" "But all this ye possess at home both apter and better,-- Wherefore, then, fly from yourselves, if 'tis yourselves that ye seek?" "Be not offended, great hero, for that is a different question; Ever is destiny blind,--ever is righteous the bard.
" "Then one meets on your stage your own contemptible nature, While 'tis in vain one seeks there nature enduring and great?" "There the poet is host, and act the fifth is the reckoning; And, when crime becomes sick, virtue sits down to the feast!"