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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 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 Christina Rossetti | |

A Better Ressurection

 I have no wit, no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears.
Look right, look left, I dwell alone; I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief No everlasting hills I see; My life is in the falling leaf: O Jesus, quicken me.
My life is like a faded leaf, My harvest dwindled to a husk: Truly my life is void and brief And tedious in the barren dusk; My life is like a frozen thing, No bud nor greenness can I see: Yet rise it shall--the sap of spring; O Jesus, rise in me.
My life is like a broken bowl, A broken bowl that cannot hold One drop of water for my soul Or cordial in the searching cold; Cast in the fire the perished thing; Melt and remould it, till it be A royal cup for Him, my King: O Jesus, drink of me.


by Christina Rossetti | |

Before The Paling Of The Stars

 Before the winter morn,
Before the earliest cock crow,
Jesus Christ was born:
Born in a stable,
Cradled in a manger,
In the world his hands had made
Born a stranger.
Priest and king lay fast asleep In Jerusalem; Young and old lay fast asleep In crowded Bethlehem; Saint and angel, ox and ass, Kept a watch together Before the Christmas daybreak In the winter weather.
Jesus on his mother's breast In the stable cold, Spotless lamb of God was he, Shepherd of the fold: Let us kneel with Mary maid, With Joseph bent and hoary, With saint and angel, ox and ass, To hail the King of Glory.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

In Honour Of St. Alphonsus Rodriguez

 Laybrother of the Society of Jesus


Honour is flashed off exploit, so we say;
And those strokes once that gashed flesh or galled shield
Should tongue that time now, trumpet now that field,
And, on the fighter, forge his glorious day.
On Christ they do and on the martyr may; But be the war within, the brand we wield Unseen, the heroic breast not outward-steeled, Earth hears no hurtle then from fiercest fray.
Yet God (that hews mountain and continent, Earth, all, out; who, with trickling increment, Veins violets and tall trees makes more and more) Could crowd career with conquest while there went Those years and years by of world without event That in Majorca Alfonso watched the door.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

St. Alphonsus Rodriguez

 Laybrother of the Society of Jesus


Honour is flashed off exploit, so we say; 
And those strokes once that gashed flesh or galled shield
Should tongue that time now, trumpet now that field, 
And, on the fighter, forge his glorious day.
On Christ they do and on the martyr may; But be the war within, the brand we wield Unseen, the heroic breast not outward-steeled, Earth hears no hurtle then from fiercest fray.
Yet God (that hews mountain and continent, Earth, all, out; who, with trickling increment, Veins violets and tall trees makes more and more) Could crowd career with conquest while there went Those years and years by of world without event That in Majorca Alfonso watched the door.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Priest At The Serapeum

 My dear old father,
who always loved me the same;
my dear old father I lament
who died the day before yesterday, just before dawn.
Jesus Christ, it is my daily effort to observe the precepts of Thy most holy church in all my acts, in all words, in all thoughts.
And all those who renounce Thee I shun.
-- But now I lament; I bewail, Christ, for my father although he was -- a horrible thing to say -- a priest at the accursed Serapeum.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Karma

 Christmas was in the air and all was well
With him, but for a few confusing flaws
In divers of God's images.
Because A friend of his would neither buy nor sell, Was he to answer for the axe that fell? He pondered; and the reason for it was, Partly, a slowly freezing Santa Claus Upon the corner, with his beard and bell.
Acknowledging an improvident surprise, He magnified a fancy that he wished The friend whom he had wrecked were here again.
Not sure of that, he found a compromise; And from the fulness of his heart he fished A dime for Jesus who had died for men.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Jesus Thou Divine Companion

 Jesus, Thou divine Companion,
By Thy lowly human birth
Thou hast come to join the workers,
Burden bearers of the earth.
Thou, the Carpenter of Nazareth, Toiling for Thy daily food, By Thy patience and Thy courage, Thou hast taught us toil is good.
They who tread the path of labor Follow where Thy feet have trod; They who work without complaining Do the holy will of God.
Thou, the Peace that passeth knowledge, Dwellest in the daily strife; Thou, the Bread of heaven, broken In the sacrament of life.
Every task, however simple, Sets the soul that does it free; Every deed of love and kindness Done to man is done to Thee.
Jesus, Thou divine Companion, Help us all to do our best; Bless in our daily labor, Lead us to the Sabbath rest.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

A Prayer for a Mothers Birthday

 Lord Jesus, Thou hast known
A mother's love and tender care:
And Thou wilt hear, while for my own
Mother most dear I make this birthday prayer.
Protect her life, I pray, Who gave the gift of life to me; And may she know, from day to day, The deepening glow of Life that comes from Thee.
As once upon her breast Fearless and well content I lay, So let her heart, on Thee at rest, Feel fears depart and troubles fade away.
Her every wish fulfill; And even if Thou must refuse In anything, let Thy wise will A comfort bring such as kind mothers use.
Ah, hold her by the hand, As once her hand held mine; And though she may not understand Life's winding way, lead her in peace divine.
I cannot pay my debt For all the love that she has given; But Thou, love's Lord, wilt not forget Her due reward,--bless her in earth and heaven.


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 The Bible | |

Colossians 3:16-17

May the word of Jesus Christ
Make its home in your hearts
And dwell in all its richness,
Permeating every part
So you may have His wisdom
In teaching one another
What you have learned from Him
Shared with sisters and brothers
And we will sing a new song
When His Holy Spirit comes in,
Making melody in our hearts
With spiritual songs and hymns
And whatever you may do
In word, thought or deed,
Do everything in the name of Jesus
Giving praise unto thee.

Scripture Poem © Copyright Of M.
S.
Lowndes


by The Bible | |

Romans 12:2

May you never be conformed
To the world and all its ways
To be fashioned by its customs
And to do what others say
May you be so transformed
By the renewing of your mind
As you meditate on God's word,
In His presence you will find
That you will be renewed
And changed so you may prove
What is the perfect will of God
And that which is good for you
For God so longs for us
To become as Jesus Christ
To always walk in conformity
To His purpose and will for our lives.

Scripture Poem © Copyright Of M.
S.
Lowndes


by Anonymous | |

EVENING.

The day is gone,—the silent night
Invites me to my peaceful bed;
But, Lord, I know that it is right
To thank Thee, ere I rest my head.
For my good meals and pleasant hours,
That I have had this present day,
Let me exert my infant powers
To praise Thee, nor forget to pray.
Thou art most good.
I can’t tell all
That Thou hast ever done for me;
My Shepherd, now on Thee I call,
From dangers still preserve me free.
[Pg 020]
If I’ve been naughty on this day,
Oh! make me sorry for my fault;
Do Thou forgive, and teach the way
To follow Jesus as I ought.
And now I’ll lay me down to rest,
Myself,—my friends,—all safely keep;
May Thy great name be ever blest,
Both when we wake, and when we sleep.


by Anonymous | |

LIKE JESUS.

I want to be like Jesus,
So lowly and so meek;
For no one marked an angry word,
Whoever heard him speak.
I want to be like Jesus,
So frequently in prayer;
Alone upon the mountain top,
He met his Father there.
I want to be like Jesus:
I never, never find,
That he, though persecuted, was
To any one unkind.
I want to be like Jesus,
Engaged in doing good;
So that of me it may be said,
I have done what I could.


by Omar Khayyam | |

Now the New Year

Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.


by Joyce Kilmer | |

Stars

 (For the Rev.
James J.
Daly, S.
J.
) Bright stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air, Are you errant strands of Lady Mary's hair? As she slits the cloudy veil and bends down through, Do you fall across her cheeks and over heaven too? Gay stars, little stars, you are little eyes, Eyes of baby angels playing in the skies.
Now and then a winged child turns his merry face Down toward the spinning world -- what a funny place! Jesus Christ came from the Cross (Christ receive my soul!) In each perfect hand and foot there was a bloody hole.
Four great iron spikes there were, red and never dry, Michael plucked them from the Cross and set them in the sky.
Christ's Troop, Mary's Guard, God's own men, Draw your swords and strike at Hell and strike again.
Every steel-born spark that flies where God's battles are, Flashes past the face of God, and is a star.


by Etheridge Knight | |

Feeling Fucked Up

 Lord she's gone done left me done packed / up and split
and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs--

Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism fuck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck
god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon
and malcom fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck
the whole muthafucking thing
all i want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing


by Sylvia Plath | |

A Better Resurrection

 I have no wit, I have no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
A lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is like the falling leaf;
O Jesus, quicken me.


by Allen Ginsberg | |

In 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.
San Jose, 1954


by Robert Graves | |

In the Wilderness

 Christ of His gentleness 
Thirsting and hungering, 
Walked in the wilderness; 
Soft words of grace He spoke 
Unto lost desert-folk
That listened wondering.
He heard the bitterns call From ruined palace-wall, Answered them brotherly.
He held communion With the she-pelican Of lonely piety.
Basilisk, cockatrice, Flocked to his homilies, With mail of dread device, With monstrous barb?d slings, With eager dragon-eyes; Great rats on leather wings And poor blind broken things, Foul in their miseries.
And ever with Him went, Of all His wanderings Comrade, with ragged coat, Gaunt ribs—poor innocent— Bleeding foot, burning throat, The guileless old scapegoat; For forty nights and days Followed in Jesus’ ways, Sure guard behind Him kept, Tears like a lover wept.


by Vachel Lindsay | |

Foreign Missions in Battle Array

 An endless line of splendor, 
These troops with heaven for home, 
With creeds they go from Scotland, 
With incense go from Rome.
These, in the name of Jesus, Against the dark gods stand, They gird the earth with valor, They heed their King's command.
Onward the line advances, Shaking the hills with power, Slaying the hidden demons, The lions that devour.
No bloodshed in the wrestling, — But souls new-born arise — The nations growing kinder, The child-hearts growing wise.
What is the final ending? The issue, can we know? Will Christ outlive Mohammed? Will Kali's altar go? This is our faith tremendous, — Our wild hope, who shall scorn, — That in the name of Jesus The world shall be reborn!


by Wilfred Owen | |

The Last Laugh

 'O Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed, or prayed indeed, The Bullets chirped - 'In vain! vain! vain!' Machine-guns chuckled, 'Tut-tut! Tut-tut!' And the Big Gun guffawed.
Another sighed, - 'O Mother, Mother! Dad!' Then smiled, at nothing, childlike, being dead.
And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud Leisurely gestured, - 'Fool!' And the falling splinters tittered.
'My Love!' one moaned.
Love-languid seemed his mood, Till, slowly lowered, his whole face kissed the mud.
And the Bayonets' long teeth grinned; Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned; And the Gas hissed.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Judson Stoddard

 On a mountain top above the clouds
That streamed like a sea below me
I said that peak is the thought of Budda,
And that one is the prayer of Jesus,
And this one is the dream of Plato,
And that one there the song of Dante,
And this is Kant and this is Newton,
And this is Milton and this is Shakespeare,
And this the hope of the Mother Church,
And this -- why all these peaks are poems,
Poems and prayers that pierce the clouds.
And I said "What does God do with mountains That rise almost to heaven?"


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Julia Miller

 We quarreled that morning,
For he was sixty-five, and I was thirty,
And I was nervous and heavy with the child
Whose birth I dreaded.
I thought over the last letter written me By that estranged young soul Whose betrayal of me I had concealed By marrying the old man.
Then I took morphine and sat down to read.
Across the blackness that came over my eyes I see the flickering light of these words even now: "And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To-day thou shalt Be with me in paradise.
"


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

The Village Atheist

 Ye young debaters over the doctrine
Of the soul's immortality
I who lie here was the village atheist,
Talkative, contentious, versed in the arguments
Of the infidels.
But through a long sickness Coughing myself to death I read the Upanishads and the poetry of Jesus.
And they lighted a torch of hope and intuition And desire which the Shadow, Leading me swiftly through the caverns of darkness, Could not extinguish.
Listen to me, ye who live in the senses And think through the senses only: Immortality is not a gift, Immortality is an achievement; And only those who strive mightily Shall possess it.