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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 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 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.
"


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.


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

The Knights Of St. John

 Oh, nobly shone the fearful cross upon your mail afar,
When Rhodes and Acre hailed your might, O lions of the war!
When leading many a pilgrim horde, through wastes of Syrian gloom;
Or standing with the cherub's sword before the holy tomb.
Yet on your forms the apron seemed a nobler armor far, When by the sick man's bed ye stood, O lions of the war! When ye, the high-born, bowed your pride to tend the lowly weakness, The duty, though it brought no fame, fulfilled by Christian meekness-- Religion of the cross, thou blend'st, as in a single flower, The twofold branches of the palm--humility and power.


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 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 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)


by Walt Whitman | |

Base of all Metaphysics The.

 AND now, gentlemen, 
A word I give to remain in your memories and minds, 
As base, and finale too, for all metaphysics.
(So, to the students, the old professor, At the close of his crowded course.
) Having studied the new and antique, the Greek and Germanic systems, Kant having studied and stated—Fichte and Schelling and Hegel, Stated the lore of Plato—and Socrates, greater than Plato, And greater than Socrates sought and stated—Christ divine having studied long, I see reminiscent to-day those Greek and Germanic systems, See the philosophies all—Christian churches and tenets see, Yet underneath Socrates clearly see—and underneath Christ the divine I see, The dear love of man for his comrade—the attraction of friend to friend, Of the well-married husband and wife—of children and parents, Of city for city, and land for land.


by Robinson Jeffers | |

Quia Absurdum

 Guard yourself from the terrible empty light of space, the bottomless
Pool of the stars.
(Expose yourself to it: you might learn something.
) Guard yourself from perceiving the inherent nastiness of man and woman.
(Expose yourself to it: you might learn something.
) Faith, as they now confess, is preposterous, an act of will.
Choose the Christian sheep-cote Or the Communist rat-fight: faith will cover your head from the man-devouring stars.


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 Edgar Lee Masters | |

Richard Bone

 When I first came to Spoon River
I did not know whether what they told me
Was true or false.
They would bring me an epitaph And stand around the shop while I worked And say "He was so kind," "He was wonderful," "She was the sweetest woman," "He was a consistent Christian.
" And I chiseled for them whatever they wished, All in ignorance of its truth.
But later, as I lived among the people here, I knew how near to the life Were the epitaphs that were ordered for them when they died.
But still I chiseled whatever they paid me to chisel And made myself party to the false chronicles Of the stones, Even as the historian does who writes Without knowing the truth, Or because he is influenced to hide it.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Dr. Siegfried Iseman

 I said when they handed me my diploma,
I said to myself I will be good
And wise and brave and helpful to others;
I said I will carry the Christian creed
Into the practice of medicine!
Somehow the world and the other doctors
Know what's in your heart as soon as you make
This high-soured resolution.
And the way of it is they starve you out.
And no one comes to you but the poor.
And you find too late that being a doctor Is just a way of making a living.
And when you are poor and have to carry The Christian creed and wife and children All on your back, it is too much! That's why I made the Elixir of Youth, Which landed me in the jail at Peoria Branded a swindler and a crook By the upright Federal Judge!


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Schroeder the Fisherman

 I sat on the bank above Bernadotte
And dropped crumbs in the water,
Just to see the minnows bump each other,
Until the strongest got the prize.
Or I went to my little pasture, Where the peaceful swine were asleep in the wallow, Or nosing each other lovingly, And emptied a basket of yellow corn, And watched them push and squeal and bite, And trample each other to get the corn.
And I saw how Christian Dallman's farm, Of more than three thousand acres, Swallowed the patch of Felix Schmidt, As a bass will swallow a minnow And I say if there's anything in man -- Spirit, or conscience, or breath of God That makes him different from fishes or hogs, I'd like to see it work!


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Felix Schmidt

 It was only a little house of two rooms --
Almost like a child's play-house --
With scarce five acres of ground around it;
And I had so many children to feed
And school and clothe, and a wife who was sick
From bearing children.
One day lawyer Whitney came along And proved to me that Christian Dallman, Who owned three thousand acres of land, Had bought the eighty that adjoined me In eighteen hundred and seventy-one For eleven dollars, at a sale for taxes, While my father lay in his mortal illness.
So the quarrel arose and I went to law.
But when we came to the proof, A survey of the land showed clear as day That Dallman's tax deed covered my ground And my little house of two rooms.
It served me right for stirring him up.
I lost my case and lost my place.
I left the court room and went to work As Christian Dallman's tenant.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

J. Milton Miles

 Whenever the Presbyterian bell
Was rung by itself, I knew it as the Presbyterian bell.
But when its sound was mingled With the sound of the Methodist, the Christian, The Baptist and the Congregational, I could no longer distinguish it, Nor any one from the others, or either of them.
And as many voices called to me in life Marvel not that I could not tell The true from the false, Nor even, at last, the voice that I should have known.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

W. Lloyd Garrison Standard

 Vegetarian, non-resistant, free-thinker, in ethics a Christian;
Orator apt at the rhine-stone rhythm of Ingersoll.
Carnivorous, avenger, believer and pagan.
Continent, promiscuous, changeable, treacherous, vain, Proud, with the pride that makes struggle a thing for laughter; With heart cored out by the worm of theatric despair; Wearing the coat of indifference to hide the shame of defeat; I, child of the abolitionist idealism -- A sort of Brand in a birth of half-and-half.
What other thing could happen when I defended The patriot scamps who burned the court house, That Spoon River might have a new one, Than plead them guilty? When Kinsey Keene drove through The card-board mask of my life with a spear of light, What could I do but slink away, like the beast of myself Which I raised from a whelp, to a corner and growl? The pyramid of my life was nought but a dune, Barren and formless, spoiled at last by the storm.


by Robert Louis Stevenson | |

To Marcus

 YOU have been far, and I
Been farther yet,
Since last, in foul or fair
An impecunious pair,
Below this northern sky
Of ours, we met.
Now winter night shall see Again us two, While howls the tempest higher, Sit warmly by the fire And dream and plan, as we Were wont to do.
And, hand in hand, at large Our thoughts shall walk While storm and gusty rain, Again and yet again, Shall drive their noisy charge Across the talk.
The pleasant future still Shall smile to me, And hope with wooing hands Wave on to fairy lands All over dale and hill And earth and sea.
And you who doubt the sky And fear the sun - You - Christian with the pack - You shall not wander back For I am Hopeful - I Will cheer you on.
Come - where the great have trod, The great shall lead - Come, elbow through the press, Pluck Fortune by the dress - By God, we must - by God, We shall succeed.


by Robert Louis Stevenson | |

A Thought

 It is very nice to think 
The world is full of meat and drink, 
With little children saying grace 
In every Christian kind of place.


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 Siegfried Sassoon | |

How to Die

 Dark clouds are smouldering into red 
While down the craters morning burns.
The dying soldier shifts his head To watch the glory that returns; He lifts his fingers toward the skies Where holy brightness breaks in flame; Radiance reflected in his eyes, And on his lips a whispered name.
You’d think, to hear some people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces white as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.
But they’ve been taught the way to do it Like Christian soldiers; not with haste And shuddering groans; but passing through it With due regard for decent taste.


by Siegfried Sassoon | |

The Tombstone-Maker

 He primmed his loose red mouth and leaned his head 
Against a sorrowing angel’s breast, and said: 
‘You’d think so much bereavement would have made 
‘Unusual big demands upon my trade.
‘The War comes cruel hard on some poor folk; ‘Unless the fighting stops I’ll soon be broke.
’ He eyed the Cemetery across the road.
‘There’s scores of bodies out abroad, this while, ‘That should be here by rights.
They little know’d ‘How they’d get buried in such wretched style.
’ I told him with a sympathetic grin, That Germans boil dead soldiers down for fat; And he was horrified.
‘What shameful sin! ‘O sir, that Christian souls should come to that!’


by Stevie Smith | |

Sunt Leones

 The lions who ate the Christians on the sands of the arena
By indulging native appetites played was now been seen a
Not entirely negligible part
In consolidating at the very start
The position of the Early Christian Church.
Initiatory rights are always bloody In the lions, it appears From contemporary art, made a study Of dyeing Coliseum sands a ruddy Liturgically sacrificial hue And if the Christians felt a little blue- Will people being eaten often do.
Theirs was the death, and there's was a crown undying, A state of things which must be satisfying.
My point which up to this has been obscured Is that it was the lions who procured By chewing up blood gristle flesh and bone The martyrdoms on which the church has grown.
I only write this poem because I thought it rather looked As if the part the lions played was being overlooked.
By lions' jaws great benefits and blessings were begotten And so our debt to Lionhood must never be forgotten.


by John Masefield | |

Sea Change

 "Goneys an' gullies an' all o' the birds o' the sea
They ain't no birds, not really", said Billy the Dane.
"Not mollies, nor gullies, nor goneys at all", said he, "But simply the sperrits of mariners livin' again.
"Them birds goin' fishin' is nothin' but the souls o' the drowned, Souls o' the drowned, an' the kicked as are never no more An' that there haughty old albatross cruisin' around, Belike he's Admiral Nelson or Admiral Noah.
"An' merry's the life they are living.
They settle and dip, They fishes, they never stands watches, they waggle their wings; When a ship comes by, they fly to look at the ship To see how the nowaday mariners manages things.
"When freezing aloft in a snorter I tell you I wish -- (Though maybe it ain't like a Christian) -- I wish I could be A haughty old copper-bound albatross dipping for fish And coming the proud over all o' the birds o' the sea.
"