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Best Famous Religious Poems

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

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Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

Mr. Eliot’s Sunday Morning Service

 Look, look, master, here comes two religious caterpillars.
The Jew of Malta.
POLYPHILOPROGENITIVE The sapient sutlers of the Lord Drift across the window-panes.
In the beginning was the Word.
In the beginning was the Word.
Superfetation of , And at the mensual turn of time Produced enervate Origen.
A painter of the Umbrian school Designed upon a gesso ground The nimbus of the Baptized God.
The wilderness is cracked and browned But through the water pale and thin Still shine the unoffending feet And there above the painter set The Father and the Paraclete.
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The sable presbyters approach The avenue of penitence; The young are red and pustular Clutching piaculative pence.
Under the penitential gates Sustained by staring Seraphim Where the souls of the devout Burn invisible and dim.
Along the garden-wall the bees With hairy bellies pass between The staminate and pistilate, Blest office of the epicene.
Sweeney shifts from ham to ham Stirring the water in his bath.
The masters of the subtle schools Are controversial, polymath.


Written by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Manuel Komninos

 One dreary September day
Emperor Manuel Komninos
felt his death was near.
The court astrologers -bribed, of course- went on babbling about how many years he still had to live.
But while they were having their say, he remebered an old religious custom and ordered ecclesiastical vestments to be brought from a monastery, and he put them on, glad to assume the modest image of a priest or monk.
Happy all those who believe, and like Emperor Manuel end their lives dressed modestly in their faith.


Written 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.


More great poems below...

Written by G K Chesterton | |

The New Freethinker

 John Grubby who was short and stout 
And troubled with religious doubt, 
Refused about the age of three 
To sit upon the curate's knee; 
(For so the eternal strife must rage 
Between the spirit of the age 
And Dogma, which, as is well known, 
Does simply hate to be outgrown).
Grubby, the young idea that shoots, Outgrew the ages like old boots; While still, to all appearance, small, Would have no Miracles at all; And just before the age of ten Firmly refused Free Will to men.
The altars reeled, the heavens shook, Just as he read of in the book; Flung from his house went forth the youth Alone with tempests and the Truth.
Up to the distant city and dim Where his papa had bought for him A partnership in Chepe and Deer Worth, say twelve hundred pounds a year.
But he was resolute.
Lord Brute Had found him useful; and Lord Loot, With whom few other men would act, Valued his promptitude and tact; Never did even philanthrophy Enrich a man more rapidly: 'Twas he that stopped the Strike in Coal, For hungry children racked his soul; To end their misery there and then He filled the mines with Chinamen Sat in that House that broke the Kings, And voted for all sorts of things -- And rose from Under-Sec.
to Sec.
With scarce a murmur or a check.
Some grumbled.
Growlers who gave less Than generous worship to success, The little printers in Dundee, Who got ten years for blasphemy, (Although he let them off with seven) Respect him rather less than heaven.
No matter.
This can still be said: Never to supernatural dread Never to unseen deity, Did Sir John Grubby bend the knee; Nor was he bribed by fabled bliss To kneel to any world but this.
The curate lives in Camden Town, His lap still empty of renown, And still across the waste of years John Grubby, in the House of Peers, Faces that curate, proud and free, And never sits upon his knee.


Written by John Milton | |

Sonnet 14

 XIV

When Faith and Love which parted from thee never,
Had ripen'd thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthy load
Of Death, call'd Life; which us from Life doth sever
Thy Works and Alms and all thy good Endeavour
Staid not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
But as Faith pointed with her golden rod,
Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever.
Love led them on, and Faith who knew them best Thy hand-maids, clad them o're with purple beams And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, And speak the truth of thee on glorious Theams Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee rest And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.
Note: Camb.
Autograph supplies title, On the Religious Memory of Catherine Thomson, my Christian Friend, deceased 16 Decemb.
, 1646.


Written by John Milton | |

On the Religious Memory of Mrs. Catherine Thomson my Christian Friend Deceased Dec. 16 1646

 When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, 
Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God, 
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load 
Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever.
Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour, Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod; But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod, Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever.
Love led them on; and Faith, who knew them best Thy handmaids, clad them o’er with purple beams And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, And speak the truth of thee on glorious themes Before the Judge; who henceforth bid thee rest, And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.


Written by Ogden Nash | |

I Do I Will I Have

 How wise I am to have instructed the butler
to instruct the first footman to instruct the second
footman to instruct the doorman to order my carriage;
I am about to volunteer a definition of marriage.
Just as I know that there are two Hagens, Walter and Copen, I know that marriage is a legal and religious alliance entered into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut and a woman who can't sleep with the window open.
Moreover, just as I am unsure of the difference between flora and fauna and flotsam and jetsam, I am quite sure that marriage is the alliance of two people one of whom never remembers birthdays and the other never forgetsam, And he refuses to believe there is a leak in the water pipe or the gas pipe and she is convinced she is about to asphyxiate or drown, And she says Quick get up and get my hairbrushes off the windowsill, it's raining in, and he replies Oh they're all right, it's only raining straight down.
That is why marriage is so much more interesting than divorce, Because it's the only known example of the happy meeting of the immovable object and the irresistible force.
So I hope husbands and wives will continue to debate and combat over everything debatable and combatable, Because I believe a little incompatibility is the spice of life, particularly if he has income and she is pattable.


Written by Sharon Olds | |

Sex Without Love

 How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away.
How do they come to the come to the come to the God come to the still waters, and not love the one who came there with them, light rising slowly as steam off their joined skin? These are the true religious, the purists, the pros, the ones who will not accept a false Messiah, love the priest instead of the God.
They do not mistake the lover for their own pleasure, they are like great runners: they know they are alone with the road surface, the cold, the wind, the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio- vascular health--just factors, like the partner in the bed, and not the truth, which is the single body alone in the universe against its own best time.


Written by Jonathan Swift | |

A Beautiful Young Nymph Going To Bed

 Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane,
For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain;
Never did Covent Garden boast
So bright a batter'd, strolling Toast;
No drunken Rake to pick her up,
No Cellar where on Tick to sup;
Returning at the Midnight Hour;
Four Stories climbing to her Bow'r;
Then, seated on a three-legg'd Chair,
Takes off her artificial Hair: 
Now, picking out a Crystal Eye,
She wipes it clean, and lays it by.
Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse's Hide, Stuck on with Art on either Side, Pulls off with Care, and first displays 'em, Then in a Play-Book smoothly lays 'em.
Now dextrously her Plumpers draws, That serve to fill her hollow Jaws.
Untwists a Wire; and from her Gums A Set of Teeth completely comes.
Pulls out the Rags contriv'd to prop Her flabby Dugs and down they drop.
Proceeding on, the lovely Goddess Unlaces next her Steel-Rib'd Bodice; Which by the Operator's Skill, Press down the Lumps, the Hollows fill, Up hoes her Hand, and off she slips The Bolsters that supply her Hips.
With gentlest Touch, she next explores Her Shankers, Issues, running Sores, Effects of many a sad Disaster; And then to each applies a Plaster.
But must, before she goes to Bed, Rub off the Daubs of White and Red; And smooth the Furrows in her Front, With greasy Paper stuck upon't.
She takes a Bolus e'er she sleeps; And then between two Blankets creeps.
With pains of love tormented lies; Or if she chance to close her Eyes, Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams, And feels the Lash, and faintly screams; Or, by a faithless Bully drawn, At some Hedge-Tavern lies in Pawn; Or to Jamaica seems transported, Alone, and by no Planter courted; Or, near Fleet-Ditch's oozy Brinks, Surrounded with a Hundred Stinks, Belated, seems on watch to lie, And snap some Cull passing by; Or, struck with Fear, her Fancy runs On Watchmen, Constables and Duns, From whom she meets with frequent Rubs; But, never from Religious Clubs; Whose Favour she is sure to find, Because she pays them all in Kind.
CORINNA wakes.
A dreadful Sight! Behold the Ruins of the Night! A wicked Rat her Plaster stole, Half eat, and dragged it to his Hole.
The Crystal Eye, alas, was miss'd; And Puss had on her Plumpers piss'd.
A Pigeon pick'd her Issue-Peas; And Shock her Tresses fill'd with Fleas.
The Nymph, tho' in this mangled Plight, Must ev'ry Morn her Limbs unite.
But how shall I describe her Arts To recollect the scatter'd Parts? Or show the Anguish, Toil, and Pain, Of gath'ring up herself again? The bashful Muse will never bear In such a Scene to interfere.
Corinna in the Morning dizen'd, Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd.


Written by Dylan Thomas | |

Authors Prologue

 This day winding down now
At God speeded summer's end
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken house
On a breakneck of rocks
Tangled with chirrup and fruit,
Froth, flute, fin, and quill
At a wood's dancing hoof,
By scummed, starfish sands
With their fishwife cross
Gulls, pipers, cockles, and snails,
Out there, crow black, men
Tackled with clouds, who kneel
To the sunset nets,
Geese nearly in heaven, boys
Stabbing, and herons, and shells
That speak seven seas,
Eternal waters away
From the cities of nine
Days' night whose towers will catch
In the religious wind
Like stalks of tall, dry straw,
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my swan, splay sounds),
Out of these seathumbed leaves
That will fly and fall
Like leaves of trees and as soon
Crumble and undie
Into the dogdayed night.
Seaward the salmon, sucked sun slips, And the dumb swans drub blue My dabbed bay's dusk, as I hack This rumpus of shapes For you to know How I, a spining man, Glory also this star, bird Roared, sea born, man torn, blood blest.
Hark: I trumpet the place, From fish to jumping hill! Look: I build my bellowing ark To the best of my love As the flood begins, Out of the fountainhead Of fear, rage read, manalive, Molten and mountainous to stream Over the wound asleep Sheep white hollow farms To Wales in my arms.
Hoo, there, in castle keep, You king singsong owls, who moonbeam The flickering runs and dive The dingle furred deer dead! Huloo, on plumbed bryns, O my ruffled ring dove in the hooting, nearly dark With Welsh and reverent rook, Coo rooning the woods' praise, who moons her blue notes from her nest Down to the curlew herd! Ho, hullaballoing clan Agape, with woe In your beaks, on the gabbing capes! Heigh, on horseback hill, jack Whisking hare! who Hears, there, this fox light, my flood ship's Clangour as I hew and smite (A clash of anvils for my Hubbub and fiddle, this tune On atounged puffball) But animals thick as theives On God's rough tumbling grounds (Hail to His beasthood!).
Beasts who sleep good and thin, Hist, in hogback woods! The haystacked Hollow farms ina throng Of waters cluck and cling, And barnroofs cockcrow war! O kingdom of neighbors finned Felled and quilled, flash to my patch Work ark and the moonshine Drinking Noah of the bay, With pelt, and scale, and fleece: Only the drowned deep bells Of sheep and churches noise Poor peace as the sun sets And dark shoals every holy field.
We will ride out alone then, Under the stars of Wales, Cry, Multiudes of arks! Across The water lidded lands, Manned with their loves they'll move Like wooden islands, hill to hill.
Huloo, my prowed dove with a flute! Ahoy, old, sea-legged fox, Tom tit and Dai mouse! My ark sings in the sun At God speeded summer's end And the flood flowers now.


Written by Alexander Pope | |

Couplets on Wit

 I

But our Great Turks in wit must reign alone
And ill can bear a Brother on the Throne.
II Wit is like faith by such warm Fools profest Who to be saved by one, must damn the rest.
III Some who grow dull religious strait commence And gain in morals what they lose in sence.
IV Wits starve as useless to a Common weal While Fools have places purely for their Zea.
V Now wits gain praise by copying other wits As one Hog lives on what another sh---.
VI Wou'd you your writings to some Palates fit Purged all you verses from the sin of wit For authors now are so conceited grown They praise no works but what are like their own.


Written by Belinda Subraman | |

My Indian In-laws

 I remember India:
palm trees, monkey families,
fresh lime juice in the streets,
the sensual inundation
of sights and smells
and excess in everything.
I was exotic and believable there.
I was walking through dirt in my sari, to temples of the deities following the lead of my Indian in-laws.
I was scooping up fire with my hands, glancing at idols that held no meaning for me, being marked by the ash.
They smiled at the Western woman, acting religious, knowing it was my way of showing respect.
It was an adventure for me but an arm around their culture for them.
To me it was living a dream I knew I could wake up from.
To them it was the willingness to be Indian that pleased.
We were holding hands across a cultural cosmos, knowing there were no differences hearts could not soothe.
They accepted me as I accepted them, baffled but in love with our wedded mystery.


Written by Anne Sexton | |

The Fury Of Guitars And Sopranos

 This singing 
is a kind of dying, 
a kind of birth, 
a votive candle.
I have a dream-mother who sings with her guitar, nursing the bedroom with a moonlight and beautiful olives.
A flute came too, joining the five strings, a God finger over the holes.
I knew a beautiful woman once who sang with her fingertips and her eyes were brown like small birds.
At the cup of her breasts I drew wine.
At the mound of her legs I drew figs.
She sang for my thirst, mysterious songs of God that would have laid an army down.
It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart violent and religious.


Written by Robert Southey | |

To The Chapel Bell

 "Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,
Am now enforst a far unfitter task
For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds,"
For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.
Oh how I hate the sound! it is the Knell, That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour; And loth am I, at Superstition's bell, To quit or Morpheus or the Muses bower.
Better to lie and dose, than gape amain, Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain.
Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers Say hast thou ever summoned from his rest, One being awakening to religious awe? Or rous'd one pious transport in the breast? Or rather, do not all reluctant creep To linger out the hour, in listlessness or sleep? I love the bell, that calls the poor to pray Chiming from village church its chearful sound, When the sun smiles on Labour's holy day, And all the rustic train are gathered round, Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best And pleas'd to hail the day of piety and rest.
Or when, dim-shadowing o'er the face of day, The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow, As thro' the forest gloom I wend my way, The minster curfew's sullen roar I know; I pause and love its solemn toll to hear, As made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear.
Nor not to me the unfrequent midnight knell Tolls sternly harmonizing; on mine ear As the deep death-fraught sounds long lingering dwell Sick to the heart of Love and Hope and Fear Soul-jaundiced, I do loathe Life's upland steep And with strange envy muse the dead man's dreamless sleep.
But thou, memorial of monastic gall! What Fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given? Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven; And this Dean's gape, and that Dean's nosal tone, And Roman rites retain'd, tho' Roman faith be flown.


Written by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Plymouth Rock Joe

 Why are you running so fast hither and thither
Chasing midges or butterflies?
Some of you are standing solemnly scratching for grubs;
Some of you are waiting for corn to be scattered.
This is life, is it? Cock-a-doodle-do! Very well, Thomas Rhodes, You are cock of the walk, no doubt.
But here comes Elliott Hawkins, Gluck, Gluck, Gluck, attracting political followers.
Quah! quah! quah! why so poetical, Minerva, This gray morning? Kittie -- quah -- quah! for shame, Lucius Atherton, The raucous squawk you evoked from the throat Of Aner Clute will be taken up later By Mrs.
Benjamin Pantier as a cry Of votes for women: Ka dook -- dook! What inspiration has come to you, Margaret Fuller Slack? And why does your gooseberry eye Flit so liquidly, Tennessee Claflin Shope? Are you trying to fathom the esotericism of an egg? Your voice is very metallic this morning, Hortense Robbins -- Almost like a guinea hen's! Quah! That was a guttural sigh, Isaiah Beethoven; Did you see the shadow of the hawk, Or did you step upon the drumsticks Which the cook threw out this morning? Be chivalric, heroic, or aspiring, Metaphysical, religious, or rebellious, You shall never get out of the barnyard Except by way of over the fence Mixed with potato peelings and such into the trough!