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Best Famous Jesus Poems

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

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by Wallace Stevens | |

Sunday Morning

1
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark Encroachment of that old catastrophe, As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings Seem things in some procession of the dead, Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound, Stilled for the passion of her dreaming feet Over the seas, to silent Palestine, Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.
2 Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams? Shall she not find in the comforts of sun, In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else In any balm or beauty of the earth, Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven? Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow; Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms; gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; All pleasures and all pains, remembering The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.
3 Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind He moved among us, as a muttering king, Magnificent, would move among his hinds, Until our blood, commingling, virginal, With heaven, brought such requital to desire The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be The blood of paradise? And shall the earth Seem all of paradise that we shall know? The sky will be much friendlier then than now, A part of labor and a part of pain, And next in glory to enduring love, Not this dividing and indifferent blue.
4 She says, "I am content when wakened birds, Before they fly, test the reality Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings; But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields Return no more, where, then, is paradise?" There is not any haunt of prophecy, Nor any old chimera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm Remote as heaven's hill, that has endured As April's green endures; or will endure Like her rememberance of awakened birds, Or her desire for June and evening, tipped By the consummation of the swallow's wings.
5 She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss.
" Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires.
Although she strews the leaves Of sure obliteration on our paths, The path sick sorrow took, the many paths Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love Whispered a little out of tenderness, She makes the willow shiver in the sun For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears On disregarded plate.
The maidens taste And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.
6 Is there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, With rivers like our own that seek for seas They never find, the same receeding shores That never touch with inarticulate pang? Why set the pear upon those river-banks Or spice the shores with odors of the plum? Alas, that they should wear our colors there, The silken weavings of our afternoons, And pick the strings of our insipid lutes! Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
7 Supple and turbulent, a ring of men Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn Their boisterous devotion to the sun, Not as a god, but as a god might be, Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise, Out of their blood, returning to the sky; And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice, The windy lake wherein their lord delights, The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills, That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go The dew upon their feet shall manifest.
8 She hears, upon that water without sound, A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.
" We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old dependency of day and night, Or island solitude, unsponsered, free, Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail Whistle about us their spontaneous cries; Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; And, in the isolation of the sky, At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make Abiguous undulations as they sink, Downward to darkness, on extended wings.


by Allen Ginsberg | |

In The Back of the Real

railroad yard in San Jose 
I wandered desolate 
in front of a tank factory 
and sat on a bench 
near the switchman's shack.
A flower lay on the hay on the asphalt highway --the dread hay flower I thought--It had a brittle black stem and corolla of yellowish dirty spikes like Jesus' inchlong crown, and a soiled dry center cotton tuft like a used shaving brush that's been lying under the garage for a year.
Yellow, yellow flower, and flower of industry, tough spiky ugly flower, flower nonetheless, with the form of the great yellow Rose in your brain! This is the flower of the World.


by Emily Dickinson | |

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it

 Proud of my broken heart, since thou didst break it,
Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,

Proud of my night, since thou with moons dost slake it,
Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
Thou can'st not boast, like Jesus, drunken without companion Was the strong cup of anguish brewed for the Nazarene Thou can'st not pierce tradition with the peerless puncture, See! I usurped thy crucifix to honor mine!


by Emily Dickinson | |

He forgot -- and I -- remembered

 He forgot -- and I -- remembered --
'Twas an everyday affair --
Long ago as Christ and Peter --
"Warmed them" at the "Temple fire.
" "Thou wert with him" -- quoth "the Damsel"? "No" -- said Peter, 'twasn't me -- Jesus merely "looked" at Peter -- Could I do aught else -- to Thee?


by Emily Dickinson | |

At least -- to pray -- is left -- is left --

 At least -- to pray -- is left -- is left --
Oh Jesus -- in the Air --
I know not which thy chamber is --
I'm knocking -- everywhere --

Thou settest Earthquake in the South --
And Maelstrom, in the Sea --
Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth --
Hast thou no Arm for Me?


by Emily Dickinson | |

I cannot live with You --

 I cannot live with You --
It would be Life --
And Life is over there --
Behind the Shelf

The Sexton keeps the Key to --
Putting up
Our Life -- His Porcelain --
Like a Cup --

Discarded of the Housewife --
Quaint -- or Broke --
A newer Sevres pleases --
Old Ones crack --

I could not die -- with You --
For One must wait
To shut the Other's Gaze down --
You -- could not --

And I -- Could I stand by
And see You -- freeze --
Without my Right of Frost --
Death's privilege?

Nor could I rise -- with You --
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus' --
That New Grace

Glow plain -- and foreign
On my homesick Eye --
Except that You than He
Shone closer by --

They'd judge Us -- How --
For You -- served Heaven -- You know,
Or sought to --
I could not --

Because You saturated Sight --
And I had no more Eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise

And were You lost, I would be --
Though My Name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame --

And were You -- saved --
And I -- condemned to be
Where You were not --
That self -- were Hell to Me --

So We must meet apart --
You there -- I -- here --
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are -- and Prayer --
And that White Sustenance --
Despair --


by Emily Dickinson | |

Jesus! thy Crucifix

 Jesus! thy Crucifix
Enable thee to guess
The smaller size!

Jesus! thy second face
Mind thee in Paradise
Of ours!


by Emily Dickinson | |

Do People moulder equally

 Do People moulder equally,
They bury, in the Grave?
I do believe a Species
As positively live

As I, who testify it
Deny that I -- am dead --
And fill my Lungs, for Witness --
From Tanks -- above my Head --

I say to you, said Jesus --
That there be standing here --
A Sort, that shall not taste of Death --
If Jesus was sincere --

I need no further Argue --
That statement of the Lord
Is not a controvertible --
He told me, Death was dead --


by Robert Burns | |

259. A New Psalm for the Chapel of Kilmarnock

 O SING a new song to the Lord,
 Make, all and every one,
A joyful noise, even for the King
 His restoration.
The sons of Belial in the land Did set their heads together; Come, let us sweep them off, said they, Like an o’erflowing river.
They set their heads together, I say, They set their heads together; On right, on left, on every hand, We saw none to deliver.
Thou madest strong two chosen ones To quell the Wicked’s pride; That Young Man, great in Issachar, The burden-bearing tribe.
And him, among the Princes chief In our Jerusalem, The judge that’s mighty in thy law, The man that fears thy name.
Yet they, even they, with all their strength, Began to faint and fail: Even as two howling, ravenous wolves To dogs do turn their tail.
Th’ ungodly o’er the just prevail’d, For so thou hadst appointed; That thou might’st greater glory give Unto thine own anointed.
And now thou hast restored our State, Pity our Kirk also; For she by tribulations Is now brought very low.
Consume that high-place, Patronage, From off thy holy hill; And in thy fury burn the book— Even of that man M’Gill.
1 Now hear our prayer, accept our song, And fight thy chosen’s battle: We seek but little, Lord, from thee, Thou kens we get as little.
Note 1.
Dr.
William M’Gill of Ayr, whose “Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ” led to a charge of heresy against him.
Burns took up his cause in “The Kirk of Scotland’s Alarm” (p.
351).
—Lang.
[back]


by Robert Burns | |

475. Epigram on a Country Laird (Cardoness)

 BLESS Jesus Christ, O Cardonessp,
 With grateful, lifted eyes,
Who taught that not the soul alone,
 But body too shall rise;
For had He said “the soul alone
 From death I will deliver,”
Alas, alas! O Cardoness,
 Then hadst thou lain for ever.