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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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See also: Best Member Poems

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.


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)


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)


More great poems below...

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.
"


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.


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.


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!


by Alexander Pope | |

The Dying Christian to His Soul

 Vital spark of heav’nly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flying,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister Spirit, come away! What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death? The world recedes; it disappears! Heav’n opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring! Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting?


by Wallace Stevens | |

A 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.


by William Strode | |

An Epitaph On Sr John Walter Lord Cheife Baron

 Farewell Example, Living Rule farewell;
Whose practise shew'd goodness was possible,
Who reach'd the full outstretch'd perfection
Of Man, of Lawyer, and of Christian.
Suppose a Man more streight than Reason is, Whose grounded Habit could not tread amisse Though Reason slepd; a Man who still esteem'd His wife his Bone; who still his children deem'd His Limbes and future Selfe; Servants trayn'd friends; Lov'd his Familiars for Themselves not ends: Soe wise and Provident that dayes orepast He ne're wish'd backe again; by whose forecast Time's Locke, Time's Baldness, Future Time were one, Since nought could mende nor marre one Action, That man was He.
Suppose an Advocate In whose all-conquering tong true right was Fate; That could not pleade among the grounded throng Wrong Causes right nor rightfull causes wrong, But made the burnish'd Truth to shine more bright Than could the witnesses or Act in sight.
Who did soe breifely, soe perspicuously Untie the knots of darke perplexity That words appear'd like thoughts, and might derive To dull Eares Knowledge most Intuitive.
A Judge soe weigh'd that Freinde and one of Us Were heard like Titius and Sempronius.
All Eare, no Eie, noe Hande; oft being par'd The Eies Affections and the Hands Reward.
Whose Barre and Conscience were but two in Name, Sentence and Closet-Censure still the Same: That Advocate, that judge was He.
Suppose A sound and setled Christian, not like those That stande by fitts, but of that Sanctity As by Repentence might scarce better'd be: Whose Life was like his latest Houre, whose way Outwent the Journey's Ende where others stay: Who slighted not the Gospel for his Lawe, But lov'd the Church more than the Bench, and sawe That all his Righteousnes had yet neede fee One Advocate beyond himselfe.
'Twas He.
To this Good Man, Judge, Christian, now is given Faire Memory, noe Judgment, and blest Heaven.


by William Strode | |

To The Right Honourable The Lady Penelope Dowager Of The Late Vis-Count Bayning

 Great Lady,


Humble partners of like griefe
In bringing Comfort may deserve beliefe,
Because they Feele and Feyne not: Thus we say
Unto Ourselves, Lord Bayning, though away,
Is still of Christ-Church; somewhat out of sight,
As when he travel'd, or did bid good night,
And was not seen long after; now he stands
Remov'd in Worlds, as heretofore in Lands;
But is not lost.
The spight of Death can never Divide the Christian, though the Man it sever.
The like we say to You: He's still at home, Though out of reach; as in some upper roome, Or Study: for his Place is very high, His Thought is Vision; now most properly Return'd he's Yours as sure, as e're hath been The jewell in Your Cask, safe though unseen.
You know that Friends have Eares as well as Eyes, We heare Hee's well and Living, that well dies.


by Robert William Service | |

My Dentist

 Sitting in the dentist's chair,
Wishing that I wasn't there,
To forget and pass the time
I have made this bit of rhyme.
I had a rendez-vous at ten; I rushed to get in line, But found a lot of dames and men Had waited there since nine; I stared at them, then in an hour Was blandly ushered in; But though my face was grim and sour He met me with a grin.
He told me of his horse of blood, And how it "also ran", He plans to own a racing stud - (He seems a wealthy man.
) And then he left me there until I growled: "At any rate, I hope he'll not charge in his bill For all the time I wait.
" His wife has sables on her back, With jewels she's ablaze; She drives a stately Cadillac, And I'm the mug who pays: At least I'm one of those who peer With pessimistic gloom At magazines of yester-year In his damn waiting room.
I am a Christian Scientist; I don't believe in pain; My dentist had a powerful wrist, He tries and tries in vain To make me grunt or groan or squeal With probe or rasp or drill.
.
.
.
But oh, what agony I feel When HE PRESENTS HIS BILL! Sitting in the dental chair, Don't you wish you weren't there: Well, your cup of woe to fill, Just think of his infernal bill.


by Robert William Service | |

My Trinity

 For all good friends who care to read,
here let me lyre my living creed .
.
.
One: you may deem me Pacifist, For I've no sympathy with strife.
Like hell I hate the iron fist, And shun the battle-ground of life.
The hope of peace is dear to me, And I to Christian faith belong, Holding that breath should sacred be, And War is always wrong.
Two: Universalist am I And dream a world that's frontier free, With common tongue and common tie, Uncurst by nationality; Where colour, creed and class are one, And lowly folk are lifted high; Where every breed beneath the sun Is equal in God's eye.
Three: you may call me Naturist, For green glade is my quiet quest; The path of progress I have missed, And shun the city's sore unrest.
A world that's super-civilized Is one of worry, want and woe; In leafy lore let me be wised And back to Nature go.
Well, though you may but half agree, Behold my trusty Trinity


by James Tate | |

Happy As The Day Is Long

 I take the long walk up the staircase to my secret room.
Today's big news: they found Amelia Earhart's shoe, size 9.
1992: Charlie Christian is bebopping at Minton's in 1941.
Today, the Presidential primaries have failed us once again.
We'll look for our excitement elsewhere, in the last snow that is falling, in tomorrow's Gospel Concert in Springfield.
It's a good day to be a cat and just sleep.
Or to read the Confessions of Saint Augustine.
Jesus called the sons of Zebedee the Sons of Thunder.
In my secret room, plans are hatched: we'll explore the Smoky Mountains.
Then we'll walk along a beach: Hallelujah! (A letter was just delivered by Overnight Express-- it contained nothing of importance, I slept through it.
) (I guess I'm trying to be "above the fray.
") The Russians, I know, have developed a language called "Lincos" designed for communicating with the inhabitants of other worlds.
That's been a waste of time, not even a postcard.
But then again, there are tree-climbing fish, called anabases.
They climb the trees out of stupidity, or so it is said.
Who am I to judge? I want to break out of here.
A bee is not strong in geometry: it cannot tell a square from a triangle or a circle.
The locker room of my skull is full of panting egrets.
I'm saying that strictly for effect.
In time I will heal, I know this, or I believe this.
The contents and furnishings of my secret room will be labeled and organized so thoroughly it will be a little frightening.
What I thought was infinite will turn out to be just a couple of odds and ends, a tiny miscellany, miniature stuff, fragments of novelties, of no great moment.
But it will also be enough, maybe even more than enough, to suggest an immense ritual and tradition.
And this makes me very happy.


by Edward Taylor | |

Happy As The Day Is Long

 I take the long walk up the staircase to my secret room.
Today's big news: they found Amelia Earhart's shoe, size 9.
1992: Charlie Christian is bebopping at Minton's in 1941.
Today, the Presidential primaries have failed us once again.
We'll look for our excitement elsewhere, in the last snow that is falling, in tomorrow's Gospel Concert in Springfield.
It's a good day to be a cat and just sleep.
Or to read the Confessions of Saint Augustine.
Jesus called the sons of Zebedee the Sons of Thunder.
In my secret room, plans are hatched: we'll explore the Smoky Mountains.
Then we'll walk along a beach: Hallelujah! (A letter was just delivered by Overnight Express-- it contained nothing of importance, I slept through it.
) (I guess I'm trying to be "above the fray.
") The Russians, I know, have developed a language called "Lincos" designed for communicating with the inhabitants of other worlds.
That's been a waste of time, not even a postcard.
But then again, there are tree-climbing fish, called anabases.
They climb the trees out of stupidity, or so it is said.
Who am I to judge? I want to break out of here.
A bee is not strong in geometry: it cannot tell a square from a triangle or a circle.
The locker room of my skull is full of panting egrets.
I'm saying that strictly for effect.
In time I will heal, I know this, or I believe this.
The contents and furnishings of my secret room will be labeled and organized so thoroughly it will be a little frightening.
What I thought was infinite will turn out to be just a couple of odds and ends, a tiny miscellany, miniature stuff, fragments of novelties, of no great moment.
But it will also be enough, maybe even more than enough, to suggest an immense ritual and tradition.
And this makes me very happy.


by Barry Tebb | |

COMING TO TERMS WITH SCHIZOPHRENIA

 Why our son, why?

Every morning the same dark chorus wakes me

And I wonder how I am still alive.
"Balance the forces of life and death" Is the Kleinian recipe for survival.
"It is God’s will, life is meant to test us" My Christian heritage tells me.
"Life is a vale of soul making" Keats reminds us.
Insistently the morning traffic hums As I sip my tea, list calls to make, Sigh in frustration at unread books.
For solace I look at cards of Haworth Moorland vistas of unending paths Cloudscapes only a Constable could paint High Withens in a gale, the sloping village street.
How? When? Why? ‘The truth’ - if such an entity exists - Is that I want to run away.


by Francois Villon | |

Ballade To Our Lady

 WRITTEN FOR HIS MOTHER 

Dame du ciel, regents terrienne, 
Emperiere des infemaux palus.
.
.
.
Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,— I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call, Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell, Albeit in nought I be commendable.
But all mine undeserving may not mar Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are; Without the which (as true words testify) No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far.
Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
Unto thy Son say thou that I am His, And to me graceless make Him gracious.
Said Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss, Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theopbilus, Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus Though to the Fiend his bounden service was.
Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass (Sweet Virgin that shalt have no loss thereby!) The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old, I am, and nothing learn'd in letter-lore.
Within my parish-cloister I behold A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore, And eke an Hell whose damned folk seethe full sore: One bringeth fear, the other joy to me.
That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be,— Thou of whom all must ask it even as I; And that which faith desires, that let it see.
For in this faith I choose to live and die.
O excellent Virgin Princess! thou didst bear King Jesus, the most excellent comforter, Who even of this our weakness craved a share And for our sake stooped to us from on high, Offering to death His young life sweet and fair.
Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare, And in this faith I choose to live and die.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, trans.


by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 35 part 2

 Truth, sincerity, etc.
Phil.
4:8.
Let those who bear the Christian name Their holy vows fulfil; The saints, the followers of the Lamb, Are men of honor still.
True to the solemn oaths they take, Though to their hurt they swear; Constant and just to all they speak, For God and angels hear.
Still with their lips their hearts agree, Nor flatt'ring words devise; They know the God of truth can see Through every false disguise.
They hate th' appearance of a lie In all the shapes it wears; They live in truth, and when they die, Eternal life is theirs.
While hypocrites and liars fly Before the Judge's frown, His faithful friends, who fear a lie, Receive th' immortal crown.


by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 158

 Few saved; or, The almost Christian, the hypocrite, and apostate.
Broad is the road that leads to death, And thousands walk together there; But wisdom shows a narrower path, With here and there a traveller.
"Deny thyself, and take thy cross," Is the Redeemer's great command; Nature must count her gold but dross, If she would gain this heav'nly land.
The fearful soul that tires and faints, And walks the ways of God no more, Is but esteemed almost a saint, And makes his own destruction sure.
Lord, let not all my hopes be vain Create my heart entirely new; Which hypocrites could ne'er attain, Which false apostates never knew.


by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 48

 The Christian race.
Isa.
40:28-31.
Awake, our souls; away, our fears, Let every trembling thought begone; Awake, and run the heav'nly race, And put a cheerful courage on.
True, 'tis a strait and thorny road, And mortal spirits tire and faint; But they forget the mighty God, That feeds the strength of every saint.
Thee, mighty God! whose matchless power Is ever new and ever young, And firm endures, while endless years Their everlasting circles run.
From thee, the overflowing spring, Our souls shall drink a fresh supply, While such as trust their native strength Shall melt away, and droop, and die.
Swift as an eagle cuts the air, We'll mount aloft to thine abode On wings of love our souls shall fly, Nor tire amidst the heav'nly road.


by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 56

 The song of Moses and the Lamb.
Rev.
15:3; 16:19; 17:6.
We sing the glories of thy love, We sound thy dreadful name; The Christian church unites the songs Of Moses and the Lamb.
Great God! how wondrous are thy works Of vengeance and of grace! Thou King of saints, Almighty Lord, How just and true thy ways! Who dares refuse to fear thy name, Or worship at thy throne? Thy judgments speak thine holiness Through all the nations known.
Great Babylon that rules the earth, Drunk with the martyrs' blood, Her crimes shall speedily awake The fury of our God.
The cup of wrath is ready mixed, And she must drink the dregs: Strong is the Lord, her sovereign Judge, And shall fulfil the plagues.


by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 161

 Christian virtues; or, The difficulty of conversion.
Strait is the way, the door is strait, That leads to joys on high; 'Tis but a few that find the gate, While crowds mistake, and die.
Beloved self must be denied, The mind and will renewed Passion suppressed, and patience tried, And vain desires subdued.
[Flesh is a dangerous foe to grace, Where it prevails and rules; Flesh must be humbled, pride abased, Lest they destroy our souls.
The love of gold be banished hence, That vile idolatry, And every member, every sense, in sweet subjection lie.
] The tongue, that most unruly power, Requires a strong restraint; We must be watchful every hour, And pray, but never faint.
Lord, can a feeble, helpless worm Fulfil a task so hard? Thy grace must all my work perform, And give the free reward.


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.


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.


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.
"