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Best Famous Religion Poems

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

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by Philip Larkin | |

Water

 If I were called in
To construct a religion
I should make use of water.
Going to church Would entail a fording To dry, different clothes; My liturgy would employ Images of sousing, A furious devout drench, And I should raise in the east A glass of water Where any-angled light Would congregate endlessly.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

On Myselfe

 Good Heav'n, I thank thee, since it was design'd
I shou'd be fram'd, but of the weaker kinde,
That yet, my Soul, is rescu'd from the Love
Of all those Trifles, which their Passions move.
Pleasures, and Praise, and Plenty haue with me But their just value.
If allow'd they be, Freely, and thankfully as much I tast, As will not reason, or Religion wast.
If they're deny'd, I on my selfe can Liue, And slight those aids, unequal chance does give.
When in the Sun, my wings can be display'd, And in retirement, I can bless the shade.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Higher Unity

 The Rev.
Isaiah Bunter has disappeared into the interior of the Solomon Islands, and it is feared that he may have been devoured by the natives, as there has been a considerable revival of religious customs among the Polynesians.
--A real paragraph from a real Paper; only the names altered.
It was Isaiah Bunter Who sailed to the world's end, And spread religion in a way That he did not intend.
He gave, if not the gospel-feast, At least a ritual meal; And in a highly painful sense He was devoured with zeal.
And who are we (as Henson says) That we should close the door? And should not Evangelicals All jump at shedding Gore? And many a man will melt in man, Becoming one, not two, When smacks across the startled earth The Kiss of Kikuyu.
When Man is the Turk, and the Atheist, Essene, Erastian, Whig, And the Thug and the Druse and the Catholic And the crew of the Captain's gig.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

It All Will Come Out Right

 Whatever is a cruel wrong, 
Whatever is unjust, 
The honest years that speed along
Will trample in the dust.
In restless youth I railed at fate With all my puny might, But now I know if I but wait It all will come out right.
Though Vice may don the judge’s gown And play the censors’ part, And Fact be cowed by Falsehood’s frown And Nature ruled by art; Though Labour toils through blinding tears And idle Wealth is might, I know that the honest, earnest years Will bring it all out right.
Though poor and loveless creeds may pass For pure religion’s gold; Though ignorance may rule the mass While truth meets glances cold, I know a law, complete, sublime, Controls us with its might, And in God’s own appointed time It all will come out right.


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

My Faith

 Which religion do I acknowledge? None that thou namest.
"None that I name? And why so?"--Why, for religion's own sake?


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 Allama Iqbal | |

Communism and Imperialism

The soul of both of them is impatient and restless,

Both of them know not God, and deceive mankind.
One lives by production, the other by taxation, And man is a glass caught between two stones.
The one puts to rout science, religion, art, The other robs the body of soul, the hand of bread.
I have perceived both drowned in water and clay, Both bodily burnished, but utterly dark of heart.
Life means a passionate burning, an urge to make, To cast in the dead clay the seed of heart.


by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Melancholia

 the history of melancholia
includes all of us.
me, I writhe in dirty sheets while staring at blue walls and nothing.
I have gotten so used to melancholia that I greet it like an old friend.
I will now do 15 minutes of grieving for the lost redhead, I tell the gods.
I do it and feel quite bad quite sad, then I rise CLEANSED even though nothing is solved.
that's what I get for kicking religion in the ass.
I should have kicked the redhead in the ass where her brains and her bread and butter are at .
.
.
but, no, I've felt sad about everything: the lost redhead was just another smash in a lifelong loss .
.
.
I listen to drums on the radio now and grin.
there is something wrong with me besides melancholia.


by Ben Jonson | |

To Francis Beaumont

 E  P  I  G  R  A  M  S .
  

LV.
 — TO FRANCIS BEAUMONT.
How I do love thee, BEAUMONT, and thy Muse,
That unto me dost such religion use !
How I do fear myself, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth !
At once thou mak'st me happy, and unmak'st ;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st !
What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves ?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives ?
When even there, where most thou praisest me,
For writing better, I must envy thee.


by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

English In 1819

 An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,-- 
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who 
Through public scorn,--mud from a muddy spring,-- 
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know, 
But leech-like to their fainting country cling, 
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,-- 
A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,-- 
An army, which liberticide and prey 
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield,-- 
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay; 
Religion Christless, Godless--a book sealed; 
A Senate, Time's worst statute unrepealed,-- 
Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may 
Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.


by Robinson Jeffers | |

Cassandra

 The mad girl with the staring eyes and long white fingers
Hooked in the stones of the wall,
The storm-wrack hair and screeching mouth: does it matter, Cassandra,
Whether the people believe
Your bitter fountain? Truly men hate the truth, they'd liefer
Meet a tiger on the road.
Therefore the poets honey their truth with lying; but religion— Vendors and political men Pour from the barrel, new lies on the old, and are praised for kind Wisdom.
Poor bitch be wise.
No: you'll still mumble in a corner a crust of truth, to men And gods disgusting—you and I, Cassandra.


by David Lehman | |

A Quick One Before I Go

 There comes a time in every man's life 
when he thinks: I have never had a single 
original thought in my life 
including this one & therefore I shall 
eliminate all ideas from my poems 
which shall consist of cats, rice, rain 
baseball cards, fire escapes, hanging plants 
red brick houses where I shall give up booze 
and organized religion even if it means 
despair is a logical possibility that can't 
be disproved I shall concentrate on the five 
senses and what they half perceive and half 
create, the green street signs with white 
letters on them the body next to mine 
asleep while I think these thoughts 
that I want to eliminate like nostalgia
0 was there ever a man who felt as I do 
like a pronoun out of step with all the other 
floating signifiers no things but in words 
an orange T-shirt a lime green awning


by Vachel Lindsay | |

Love and Law

 TRUE Love is founded in rocks of Remembrance 
In stones of Forbearance and mortar of pain.
The workman lays wearily granite on granite, And bleeds for his castle, 'mid sunshine and rain.
Love is not velvet, not all of it velvet, Not all of it banners, not gold-leaf alone.
'Tis stern as the ages and old as Religion.
With Patience its watchword and Law for its throne.


by Amy Lowell | |

Fragment

 What is poetry? Is it a mosaic
Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught
By patient labor any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion's sake.


by Amy Lowell | |

Fragment

 What is poetry? Is it a mosaic
Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught
By patient labor any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion's sake.


by Archibald MacLeish | |

Dr. Sigmund Freud Discovers the Sea Shell

 Science, that simple saint, cannot be bothered
Figuring what anything is for:
Enough for her devotions that things are
And can be contemplated soon as gathered.
She knows how every living thing was fathered, She calculates the climate of each star, She counts the fish at sea, but cannot care Why any one of them exists, fish, fire or feathered.
Why should she? Her religion is to tell By rote her rosary of perfect answers.
Metaphysics she can leave to man: She never wakes at night in heaven or hell Staring at darkness.
In her holy cell There is no darkness ever: the pure candle Burns, the beads drop briskly from her hand.
Who dares to offer Her the curled sea shell! She will not touch it!--knows the world she sees Is all the world there is! Her faith is perfect! And still he offers the sea shell .
.
.
What surf Of what far sea upon what unknown ground Troubles forever with that asking sound? What surge is this whose question never ceases?


by Edmund Spenser | |

Poem 22

 ANd thou great Iuno, which with awful might
the lawes of wedlock still dost patronize,
And the religion of the faith first plight
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize:
and eeke for comfort often called art
Of women in their smart,
Eternally bind thou this louely band,
And all thy blessings vnto vs impart.
And thou glad Genius, in whose gentle hand, The bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine, Without blemish or staine.
And the sweet pleasures of theyr loues delight With secret ayde doest succour and supply, Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny, Send vs the timely fruit of this same night.
And thou fayre Hebe, and thou Hymen free, Grant that it may so be.
Til which we cease your further prayse to sing, Ne any woods shal answer, nor your Eccho ring.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Butch Weldy

 After I got religion and steadied down
They gave me a job in the canning works,
And every morning I had to fill
The tank in the yard with gasoline,
That fed the blow-fires in the sheds
To heat the soldering irons.
And I mounted a rickety ladder to do it, Carrying buckets full of the stuff.
One morning, as I stood there pouring, The air grew still and seemed to heave, And I shot up as the tank exploded, And down I came with both legs broken, And my eyes burned crisp as a couple of eggs.
For someone left a blow-fire going, And something sucked the flame in the tank.
The Circuit Judge said whoever did it Was a fellow-servant of mine, and so Old Rhodes' son didn't have to pay me.
And I sat on the witness stand as blind As Jack the Fiddler, saying over and over, "l didn't know him at all.
"


by Robert William Service | |

Pragmatic

 When young I was an Atheist,
 Yea, pompous as a pigeon
No opportunity I missed
 To satirize religion.
I sneered at Scripture, scoffed at Faith, I blasphemed at believers: Said I: "There's nothing after Death,-- Your priests are just deceivers.
" In middle age I was not so Contemptuous and caustic.
Thought I: "There's much I do not know: I'd better be agnostic.
The hope of immortality 'Tis foolish to be flouting.
" So in the end I came to be A doubter of my doubting.
Now I am old, with steps inclined To hesitate and falter; I find I get such peace of mind Just sitting by an altar.
So Friends, don't scorn the family pew, The preachments of the kirks: Religion may be false or true, But by the Lord!--it works.


by Robert William Service | |

Prayer

 You talk o' prayer an' such -
Well, I jest don't know how;
I guess I got as much
Religion as a cow.
I fight an' drink an' swear; Red hell I often raise, But never said a prayer In all my days.
I'm honest, right enough; Don't take no stock in crimes; I'm jest a dockside tough, An' yet .
.
.
an' yet sometimes, If I should happen by A church-door open wide The chances are that I Will sneak inside.
It's kin o' peaceful there, Jest sittin' in a pew; There's sompin' in the air That rests me through an' through; It does me heaps o' good To see them candles glow, So soothin' to the mood .
.
.
Why? - I don't know.
Unless that sittin' still Can be a kind o' prayer; My heart jest seems to fill Wi' peace .
.
.
Oh, God don't care For guys the likes o' me; I just ain't in His line: But when the Cross I see, I make the sign.