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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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See also: Best Member Poems

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 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


More great poems below...

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 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 Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi | |

Be Lost In The Call

Lord, said David, since you do not need us, why did you create these two worlds?

Reality replied: O prisoner of time, I was a secret treasure of kindness and generosity, and I wished this treasure to be known, so I created a mirror: its shining face, the heart; its darkened back, the world; The back would please you if you’ve never seen the face.

Has anyone ever produced a mirror out of mud and straw? Yet clean away the mud and straw, and a mirror might be revealed.

Until the juice ferments a while in the cask, it isn’t wine.
If you wish your heart to be bright, you must do a little work.

My King addressed the soul of my flesh: You return just as you left.
Where are the traces of my gifts?

We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.
This Sun doesn’t want a crown or robe from God’s grace.
He is a hat to a hundred bald men, a covering for ten who were naked.

Jesus sat humbly on the back of an ass, my child! How could a zephyr ride an ass? Spirit, find your way, in seeking lowness like a stream.
Reason, tread the path of selflessness into eternity.

Remember God so much that you are forgotten.
Let the caller and the called disappear; be lost in the Call.

 

 

- Rumi


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 Christina Rossetti | |

The Three Enemies

 THE FLESH

"Sweet, thou art pale.
" "More pale to see, Christ hung upon the cruel tree And bore His Father's wrath for me.
" "Sweet, thou art sad.
" "Beneath a rod More heavy, Christ for my sake trod The winepress of the wrath of God.
" "Sweet, thou art weary.
" "Not so Christ: Whose mighty love of me suffic'd For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist.
" "Sweet, thou art footsore.
" "If I bleed, His feet have bled; yea in my need His Heart once bled for mine indeed.
" THE WORLD "Sweet, thou art young.
" "So He was young Who for my sake in silence hung Upon the Cross with Passion wrung.
" "Look, thou art fair.
" "He was more fair Than men, Who deign'd for me to wear A visage marr'd beyond compare.
" "And thou hast riches.
" "Daily bread: All else is His: Who, living, dead, For me lack'd where to lay His Head.
" "And life is sweet.
" "It was not so To Him, Whose Cup did overflow With mine unutterable woe.
" THE DEVIL "Thou drinkest deep.
" "When Christ would sup He drain'd the dregs from out my cup: So how should I be lifted up?" "Thou shalt win Glory.
" "In the skies, Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes Lest they should look on vanities.
" "Thou shalt have Knowledge.
" "Helpless dust! In Thee, O Lord, I put my trust: Answer Thou for me, Wise and Just.
" "And Might.
"-- "Get thee behind me.
Lord, Who hast redeem'd and not abhorr'd My soul, oh keep it by Thy Word.
"


by Oscar Wilde | |

HOLY WEEK AT GENOA

 I wandered through Scoglietto's far retreat,
The oranges on each o'erhanging spray
Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet
Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:
And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay
Laughed i' the sun, and life seemed very sweet.
Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear, 'Jesus the son of Mary has been slain, O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.
' Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain, The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.


by Robert William Service | |

Divine Detachment

 One day the Great Designer sought
His Clerk of Birth and Death.
Said he: "Two souls are in my thought, to whom I gave life-breath.
I deemed my work was fitly done, But yester-eve I saw That in the finished brain of one There was a tiny flaw.
"It worried me, and I would know, Since I am all to blame, What happened to them down below, Of honour or of shame; For if the later did befall, My sorrow will be grave .
.
.
" Then numbers astronomical unto the Clerk he gave.
The Keeper of the Rolls replied: "Of them I've little trace; But one he was a Prince of pride And one of lowly race.
One was a Holy Saint proclaimed; For one no hell sufficed .
.
.
.
Let's see - the last was Nero named, The other .
.
.
Jesus Christ.
"


by Robert William Service | |

Roulette

 I'll wait until my money's gone
Before I take the sleeping pills;
Then when they find me in the dawn,
Remote from earthly ails and ills
They'll say: "She's broke, the foreign bitch!"
And dump me in the common ditch.
So thought I, of all hope bereft, And by my evil fate obsessed; A thousand franks was all I'd left Of that fair fortune I possessed.
.
.
.
I throw it on the table there, And wait, with on my lips a prayer.
I fear my very life's at stake; My note is lying on the Red .
.
.
I know I'll lose it, then I'll take My pills and sleep until I'm dead .
.
.
Oh God of mercy, understand! In pity guide the croupier's hand.
My heart beats hard, my lips are dry; I feel I cannot bear to look.
I dread to hear the croupier's cry, I'll sit down in this quiet nook.
The lights go dim, my senses reel .
.
.
See! Jesus Christ is at the wheel.
* * * * * * * Kind folks arouse me from my trance.
"The Red has come ten times," they say.
"Oh do not risk another chance; Please, Lady, take your gains away, And to the Lord of Luck give thanks - You've won nigh half a million franks.
" Aye, call me just a daft old dame; I knit and sew to make my bread, And nevermore I'll play that game, For I've a glory in my head.
.
.
.
Ah well I know, to stay my fall, 'Twas our dear Lord who spun the ball.


by James Tate | |

Goodtime Jesus

 Jesus got up one day a little later than usual.
He had been dream- ing so deep there was nothing left in his head.
What was it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled back, skin falling off.
But he wasn't afraid of that.
It was a beau- tiful day.
How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do.
Take a little ride on my donkey, I love that donkey.
Hell, I love everybody.


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 | |

Goodtime Jesus

 Jesus got up one day a little later than usual.
He had been dream- ing so deep there was nothing left in his head.
What was it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled back, skin falling off.
But he wasn't afraid of that.
It was a beau- tiful day.
How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do.
Take a little ride on my donkey, I love that donkey.
Hell, I love everybody.


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 Katharine Tynan | |

Adveniat Regnum Tuum

 Thy kingdom come ! Yea, bid it come! 
But when Thy kingdom first began 
On earth, Thy kingdom was a home,
A child, a woman, and a man.
The child was in the midst thereof, O, blessed Jesus, holiest One! The centre and the fount of love Mary and Joseph's little Son.
Wherever on the earth shall be A child, a woman, and a man, Imaging that sweet trinity Wherewith Thy kingdom first began, Establish there Thy kingdom! Yea, And o'er that trinity of love Send down, as in Thy appointed day, The brooding spirit of Thy Dove!


by Katharine Tynan | |

Old Song Re-Sung

 I saw three ships a-sailing, 
A-sailing on the sea, 
The first her masts were silver,
Her hull was ivory.
The snows came drifting softly, And lined her white as wool; Oh, Jesus, Son of Mary, Thy Cradle beautiful! I saw three ships a-sailing, The next was red as blood, Her decks shone like a ruby, Encrimsoned all her wood.
Her main-mast stood up lonely, A lonely Cross and stark.
Oh, Jesus, Son of Mary, Bring all men to that ark! I saw three ships a-sailing.
The third for cargo bore The souls of men redeemed, That shall be slaves no more.
The lost beloved faces, I saw them glad and free.
Oh, Jesus, Son of Mary, When wilt thou come for me?


by Katharine Tynan | |

The Weeping Babe

 She kneels by the cradle 
Where Jesus doth lie; 
Singing, Lullaby, my Baby! 
But why dost Thou cry? 

The babes of the village 
Smile sweetly in sleep; 
And lullaby, my Baby, 
That ever dost weep! 

I've wrapped Thee in linen, 
The gift of the Kings; 
And wool, soft and fleecy, 
The kind Shepherd brings.
Now smile, little Jesus, Whom naught can defile; All gifts will I give Thee An thou wilt but smile.
But it's lullaby, my Baby! And mournful am I, Thou cherished little Jesus, That still Thou wilt cry.


by Francois Villon | |

The Ballad Of The Hanged Men

 Men my brothers who after us live,
have your hearts against us not hardened.
For—if of poor us you take pity, God of you sooner will show mercy.
You see us here, attached.
As for the flesh we too well have fed, long since it's been devoured or has rotted.
And we the bones are becoming ash and dust.
Of our pain let nobody laugh, but pray God would us all absolve.
If you my brothers I call, do not scoff at us in disdain, though killed we were by justice.
Yet þþ you know all men are not of good sound sense.
Plead our behalf since we are dead naked with the Son of Mary the Virgin that His grace be not for us dried up preserving us from hell's fulminations.
We're dead after all.
Let no soul revile us, but pray God would us all absolve.
Rain has washed us, laundered us, and the sun has dried us black.
Worse—ravens plucked our eyes hollow and picked our beards and brows.
Never ever have we sat down, but this way, and that way, at the wind's good pleasure ceaselessly we swing 'n swivel, more nibbled at than sewing thimbles.
Therefore, think not of joining our guild, but pray God would us all absolve.
Prince Jesus, who over all has lordship, care that hell not gain of us dominion.
With it we have no business, fast or loose.
People, here be no mocking, but pray God would us all absolve.


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 Francois Villon | |

Epitaph In The Form Of A Ballade

 Freres humains qui apres nous vivez, 
N'ayez les coeurs contre nous endurcis .
.
.
Men, brother men, that after us yet live, Let not your hearts too hard against us be; For if some pity of us poor men ye give, The sooner God shall take of you pity.
Here are we five or six strung up, you see, And here the flesh that all too well we fed Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred, And we the bones grow dust and ash withal; Let no man laugh at us discomforted, But pray to God that he forgive us all.
If we call on you, brothers, to forgive, Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we Were slain by law; ye know that all alive Have not wit always to walk righteously; Make therefore intercession heartily With him that of a virgin's womb was bred, That his grace be not as a dr-y well-head For us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall; We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead, But pray to God that he forgive us all.
The rain has washed and laundered us all five, And the sun dried and blackened; yea, perdie, Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee Our beards and eyebrows; never we are free, Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped, Driven at its wild will by the wind's change led, More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall; Men, for God's love, let no gibe here be said, But pray to God that he forgive us all.
Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head, Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed; We have nought to do in such a master's hall.
Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead, But pray to God that he forgive us all.
Algernon Charles Swinburne, trans.


by Isaac Watts | |

Psalm 2

 Christ dying, rising, interceding, and reigning.
Acts 4:24, etc.
[Maker and sovereign Lord Of heav'n, and earth, and seas, Thy providence confirms thy word, And answers thy decrees.
The things so long foretold By David are fulfilled, When Jews and Gentiles joined to slay Jesus, thine holy child.
] Why did the Gentiles rage, And Jews, with one accord, Bend all their counsels to destroy Th' Anointed of the Lord? Rulers and kings agree To form a vain design; Against the Lord their powers unite, Against his Christ they join.
The Lord derides their rage, And will support his throne; He that hath raised him from the dead Hath owned him for his Son.
PAUSE.
Now he's ascended high, And asks to rule the earth The merit of his blood he pleads, And pleads his heav'nly birth.
He asks, and God bestows A large inheritance; Far as the world's remotest ends His kingdom shall advance.
The nations that rebel Must feel his iron rod; He'll vindicate those honors well Which he received from God.
[Be wise, ye rulers, now, And worship at his throne; With trembling joy, ye people, bow To God's exalted Son.
If once his wrath arise, Ye perish on the place; Then blessed is the soul that flies For refuge to his grace.
]


by Isaac Watts | |

Psalm 132

 v.
5,13-18 L.
M.
At the settlement of a church, or the ordination of a minister.
Where shall we go to seek and find An habitation for our God, A dwelling for th' Eternal Mind, Among the sons of flesh and blood? The God of Jacob chose the hill Of Zion for his ancient rest; And Zion is his dwelling still, His church is with his presence blessed.
Here will I fix my gracious throne, And reign for ever, saith the Lord; Here shall my power and love be known, And blessings shall attend my word.
Here will I meet the hungry poor, And fill their souls with living bread; Sinners that wait before my door With sweet provision shall be fed.
Girded with truth, and clothed with grace, My priests, my ministers, shall shine Not Aaron in his costly dress Made an appearance so divine.
The saints, unable to contain Their inward joys, shall shout and sing; The Son of David here shall reign, And Zion triumph in her King.
[Jesus shall see a num'rous seed Born here t' uphold his glorious name; His crown shall flourish on his head, While all his foes are clothed with shame.
]