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Best Famous Spiritual Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Galway Kinnell | |

Saint Francis And The Sow

The bud 
stands for all things, 
even for those things that don't flower, 
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing; 
though sometimes it is necessary 
to reteach a thing its loveliness, 
to put a hand on its brow 
of the flower 
and retell it in words and in touch 
it is lovely 
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing; 
as Saint Francis 
put his hand on the creased forehead 
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch 
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow 
began remembering all down her thick length, 
from the earthen snout all the way 
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail, 
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine 
down through the great broken heart 
to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering 
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath 
them: 
the long, perfect loveliness of sow.


by Calvin Ziegler | |

Am Grischtdaag / At Christmas

AM GRISCHTDAAG

Sis Grischtdaag.
Die ganz Welt iwwer Frei die Leit sich sehr, Un alles is harrlich, as wann der Daag Vom Himmel gelosse waer.
Ich hock allee in mei Zimmer Un denk so iwwer die Zeit - Wie der Geischt vun Grischt sich immer Weider un weider ausbreid: Un wie heit in yeder Famillye Frehlich un gutes Mut In die liewi aldi Heemet Sich widder versammle dutt.
Ach widder deheem! Ach, Yammer! - Net all! Deel sin yo heit Zu weit vun uns ab zu kumme - Fatt in de Ewichkeit.
Net all deheem! Verleicht awwer - Unich behaap's kann sei - Im Geischt sin mir all beisamme Un griesse enanner uff's nei! So sin mir vereenicht widder - Loss die Zeit vergeb wiesie will; Ich drink eich ein Gruss, ihr Brieder! Verwas sitzt dir all so schtill? Weit ab - iwwer Barig un Valley, Un iwwer die Ewichkeit's Brick - Vun eich Brieder all, wie Geischdeschall Kummt mir Eier Gruss zerick.
AT CHRISTMAS It's Christmas.
The whole world over Everyone's filled with love, And everything's joyful, as if the day Was given from above.
I sit alone in my room Thinking about the times - How the spirit of Christ always Wider and wider shines.
And how today all families With much happiness embrace As they gather once again In the dear old home place.
All home again! Oh, not so! - Not all! Some today in reality Are far from us below - Away in eternity! Not all at home! Perhaps though - And I insist I knew - In the spirit we're all together And greet each other anew.
So we are together again - May the time go as it will, I drink to you a toast, brothers! Why do you all sit so still? Far away - over valley and ridge, And over the eternal bridge - From you brothers, like a spiritual echo Your greeting returns below.


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


More great poems below...

by Ehsan Sehgal | |

I Love You

I always dreamed
It seemed
An invisible angelic soul
That came as spiritual lights
In my sad, tearful and darknights
Where I was prisoner
By an unwanted lover
Living in the fears
I prayed years and years
With my heart and tears
May God had listened me
And one day I discovered you
My heart deeply favoured you
I now see and feel
You, as my love and soul
My life and final goal
May you give me a place in your glorious heart
To become your part and effection art.
Ehsan Sehgal


by Anonymous | |

SPIRITUAL BLESSINGS.

Almighty Father! Thou hast many blessings
In store for every loving child of Thine;
For this I pray,—Let me, Thy grace possessing,
Seek to be guided by Thy will divine.
Not for earth’s treasures,—for her joys the dearest,—
Would I my supplications raise to Thee;
Not for the hopes that to my heart are nearest,
But only that I give that heart to Thee.
I pray that Thou wouldst guide and guard me ever;
Cleanse, by Thy power, from every stain of sin;
I will Thy blessing ask on each endeavor,
And thus Thy promised peace my soul shall win.


by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi | |

The Way Things Should

What will our children do in the morning?

Will they wake with their hearts wanting to play, the way wings should?

Will they have dreamed the needed flights and gathered the strength from the planets that all men and women need to balance the wonderful charms of the earth

so that her power and beauty does not make us forget our own?

I know all about the ways of the heart – how it wants to be alive.

Love so needs to love that it will endure almost anything, even abuse, just to flicker for a moment.
But the sky’s mouth is kind, its song will never hurt you, for I sing those words.

What will our children do in the morning if they do not see us fly?

 

From Love Poems from God, by Daniel Ladinsky.

Copyright © 2002 by Daniel Ladinsky.
Reprinted by permission of the author.


by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi | |

There Is A Candle In Your Heart

There is a candle in your heart,       ready to be kindled.
There is a void in your soul,       ready to be filled.
You feel it, don’t you? You feel the separation       from the Beloved.
Invite Him to fill you up,       embrace the fire.
Remind those who tell you otherwise that       Love       comes to you of its own accord,       and the yearning for it       cannot be learned in any school.

From: ‘Hush Don’t Say Anything to God: Passionate Poems of Rumi’ Translated by Sharam Shiva

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by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi | |

Whoever Brought Me Here

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing? I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that, and I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place, I’ll be completely sober.
Meanwhile, I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off, but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice? Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul? I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer, I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home.

This poetry.
I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it, I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

Trans.
Coleman Barks.

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by Philip Larkin | |

Toads

 Why should I let the toad work
 Squat on my life?
Can't I use my wit as a pitchfork
 And drive the brute off?

Six days of the week it soils 
 With its sickening poison -
Just for paying a few bills!
 That's out of proportion.
Lots of folk live on their wits: Lecturers, lispers, Losels, loblolly-men, louts- They don't end as paupers; Lots of folk live up lanes With fires in a bucket, Eat windfalls and tinned sardines- they seem to like it.
Their nippers have got bare feet, Their unspeakable wives Are skinny as whippets - and yet No one actually starves.
Ah, were I courageous enough To shout Stuff your pension! But I know, all too well, that's the stuff That dreams are made on: For something sufficiently toad-like Squats in me, too; Its hunkers are heavy as hard luck, And cold as snow, And will never allow me to blarney My way of getting The fame and the girl and the money All at one sitting.
I don't say, one bodies the other One's spiritual truth; But I do say it's hard to lose either, When you have both.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

The Prophet

 Longing for spiritual springs,
I dragged myself through desert sands .
.
.
An angel with three pairs of wings Arrived to me at cross of lands; With fingers so light and slim He touched my eyes as in a dream: And opened my prophetic eyes Like eyes of eagle in surprise.
He touched my ears in movement, single, And they were filled with noise and jingle: I heard a shuddering of heavens, And angels' flight on azure heights And creatures' crawl in long sea nights, And rustle of vines in distant valleys.
And he bent down to my chin, And he tore off my tongue of sin, In cheat and idle talks aroused, And with his hand in bloody specks He put the sting of wizard snakes Into my deadly stoned mouth.
With his sharp sword he cleaved my breast, And plucked my quivering heart out, And coals flamed with God's behest, Into my gaping breast were ground.
Like dead I lay on desert sands, And listened to the God's commands: 'Arise, O prophet, hark and see, Be filled with utter My demands, And, going over Land and Sea, Burn with your Word the humane hearts.
'


by Robert William Service | |

Seville

 My Pa and Ma their honeymoon
Passed in an Andulasian June,
And though produced in Drury Lane,
I must have been conceived in Spain.
Now having lapsed from fair estate, A coster's is my sorry fate; Yet on my barrow lo! I wheel The golden harvest of Saville.
"Sweet Spanish oranges!" I cry.
Ah! People deem not as they buy, That in a dream a steel guitar I strum beside the Alcázar, And at the Miralda I meet A signorita honey sweet, And stroll beneath the silver moon Like Pa and Ma that magic June.
Alack-a-day! I fear I'll never Behold the golden Guadalquivir; Yet here in Brixton how I feel My spiritual home's Saville; And hold the hope that some day I Will visit there, if just to die; Feeling I have not lived in vain To crown my days in sunny Spain.


by Isaac Watts | |

Psalm 144 part 1

 v.
1,2 C.
M.
Assistance and victory in the spiritual warfare.
For ever blessed be the Lord, My Savior and my shield; He sends his Spirit with his word, To arm me for the field.
When sin and hell their force unite, He makes my soul his care, Instructs me to the heav'nly fight, And guards me through the war.
A friend and helper so divine Does my weak courage raise; He makes the glorious vict'ry mine, And his shall be the praise.


by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 20

 Spiritual apparel.
Isa.
61:10.
Awake, my heart; arise, my tongue, Prepare a tuneful voice; In God, the life of all my joys, Aloud will I rejoice.
'Tis he adorned my naked soul, And made salvation mine; Upon a poor polluted worm He makes his graces shine.
And lest the shadow of a spot Should on my soul be found, He took the robe the Savior wrought, And cast it all around.
How far the heav'nly robe exceeds What earthly princes wear These ornaments, how bright they shine! How white the garments are! The Spirit wrought my faith, and love, And hope, and every grace; But Jesus spent his life to work The robe of righteousness.
Strangely, my soul, art thou arrayed By the great Sacred Three! In sweetest harmony of praise Let all thy powers agree.


by Isaac Watts | |

Psalm 119 part 2

 Secret devotion and spiritual-mindedness.
ver.
147,55 To thee, before the dawning light My gracious God, I pray; I meditate thy name by night, And keep thy law by day.
ver.
81 My spirit faints to see thy grace, Thy promise bears me up; And while salvation long delays, Thy word supports my hope.
ver.
164 Seven times a day I lift my hands, And pay my thanks to thee; Thy righteous providence demands Repeated praise from me.
ver.
62 When midnight darkness veils the skies, I call thy works to mind; My thoughts in warm devotion rise, And sweet acceptance find.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Harry Carey Goodhue

 You never marveled, dullards of Spoon River, 
When Chase Henry voted against the saloons 
To revenge himself for being shut off.
But none of you was keen enough To follow my steps, or trace me home As Chase's spiritual brother.
Do you remember when I fought The bank and the courthouse ring, For pocketing the interest on public funds? And when I fought our leading citizens For making the poor the pack-horses of the taxes? And when I fought the water-works For stealing streets and raising rates? And when I fought the business men Who fought me in these fights? Then do you remember: That staggering up from the wreck of defeat, And the wreck of a ruined career, I slipped from my cloak my last ideal, Hidden from all eyes until then, Like the cherished jawbone of an ass, And smote the bank and the water works, And the business men with prohibition, And made Spoon River pay the cost Of the fights that I had lost?


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Professor Newcomer

 Everyone laughed at Col.
Prichard For buying an engine so powerful That it wrecked itself, and wrecked the grinder He ran it with.
But here is a joke of cosmic size: The urge of nature that made a man Evolve from his brain a spiritual life -- Oh miracle of the world! -- The very same brain with which the ape and wolf Get food and shelter and procreate themselves.
Nature has made man do this, In a world where she gives him nothing to do After all -- (though the strength of his soul goes round In a futile waste of power.
To gear itself to the mills of the gods) -- But get food and shelter and procreate himself!


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

A Spiritual Woman

 Close your eyes, my love, let me make you blind; 
 They have taught you to see 
Only a mean arithmetic on the face of things, 
A cunning algebra in the faces of men, 
 And God like geometry 
Completing his circles, and working cleverly.
I'll kiss you over the eyes till I kiss you blind; If I can—if any one could.
Then perhaps in the dark you'll have got what you want to find.
You've discovered so many bits, with your clever eyes, And I'm a kaleidoscope That you shake and shake, and yet it won't come to your mind.
Now stop carping at me.
—But God, how I hate you! Do you fear I shall swindle you? Do you think if you take me as I am, that that will abate you Somehow?—so sad, so intrinsic, so spiritual, yet so cautious, you Must have me all in your will and your consciousness— I hate you.


by Galway Kinnell | |

St. Francis And The Sow

 The bud
stands for all things,
even those things that don't flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as St.
Francis put his hand on the creased forehead of the sow, and told her in words and in touch blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow began remembering all down her thick length, from the earthen snout all the way through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail, from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine down through the great broken heart to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them: the long, perfect loveliness of sow.


by George Meredith | |

Modern Love XXIX: Am I Failing

 Am I failing ? For no longer can I cast 
A glory round about this head of gold.
Glory she wears, but springing from the mould; Not like the consecration of the Past! Is my soul beggared? Something more than earth I cry for still: I cannot be at peace In having Love upon a' mortal lease.
I cannot take the woman at her worth! Where is the ancient wealth wherewith I clothed Our human nakedness, and could endow With spiritual splendour a white brow That else had grinned at me the fact I loathed ? A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave Of a great flood that whirls me to the sea.
But, as you will! we'll sit contentedly, And eat our pot of honey on the grave.


by Philip Levine | |

The Dead

 Revolving in oval loops of solar speed,
Couched in cauls of clay as in holy robes,
Dead men render love and war no heed,
Lulled in the ample womb of the full-tilt globe.
No spiritual Caesars are these dead; They want no proud paternal kingdom come; And when at last they blunder into bed World-wrecked, they seek only oblivion.
Rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep, These bone shanks will not wake immaculate To trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day : They loll forever in colossal sleep; Nor can God's stern, shocked angels cry them up From their fond, final, infamous decay.


by Vachel Lindsay | |

How a Little Girl Danced

 DEDICATED TO LUCY BATES

(Being a reminiscence of certain private theatricals.
) Oh, cabaret dancer, I know a dancer, Whose eyes have not looked on the feasts that are vain.
I know a dancer, I know a dancer, Whose soul has no bond with the beasts of the plain: Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain.
Oh, thrice-painted dancer, vaudeville dancer, Sad in your spangles, with soul all astrain, I know a dancer, I know a dancer, Whose laughter and weeping are spiritual gain, A pure-hearted, high-hearted maiden evangel, With strength the dark cynical earth to disdain.
Flowers of bright Broadway, you of the chorus, Who sing in the hope of forgetting your pain: I turn to a sister of Sainted Cecilia, A white bird escaping the earth's tangled skein:— The music of God is her innermost brooding, The whispering angels her footsteps sustain.
Oh, proud Russian dancer: praise for your dancing.
No clean human passion my rhyme would arraign.
You dance for Apollo with noble devotion, A high cleansing revel to make the heart sane.
But Judith the dancer prays to a spirit More white than Apollo and all of his train.
I know a dancer who finds the true Godhead, Who bends o'er a brazier in Heaven's clear plain.
I know a dancer, I know a dancer, Who lifts us toward peace, from this earth that is vain: Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain.


by Delmore Schwartz | |

Love And Marilyn Monroe

 (after Spillane)


Let us be aware of the true dark gods
Acknowledgeing the cache of the crotch
The primitive pure and pwerful pink and grey
 private sensitivites
Wincing, marvelous in their sweetness, whence rises
 the future.
Therefore let us praise Miss Marilyn Monroe.
She has a noble attitude marked by pride and candor She takes a noble pride in the female nature and torso She articualtes her pride with directness and exuberance She is honest in her delight in womanhood and manhood.
She is not a great lady, she is more than a lady, She continues the tradition of Dolly Madison and Clara Bow When she says, "any woman who claims she does not like to be grabbed is a liar!" Whether true or false, this colossal remark states a dazzling intention.
.
.
It might be the birth of a new Venus among us It atones at the very least for such as Carrie Nation For Miss Monroe will never be a blue nose, and perhaps we may hope That there will be fewer blue noses because she has flourished -- Long may she flourish in self-delight and the joy of womanhood.
A nation haunted by Puritanism owes her homage and gratitude.
Let us praise, to say it again, her spiritual pride And admire one who delights in what she has and is (Who says also: "A woman is like a motor car: She needs a good body.
" And: "I sun bathe in the nude, because I want to be blonde all over.
") This is spiritual piety and physical ebullience This is vivd glory, spiritual and physical, Of Miss Marilyn Monroe.


by Edwin Muir | |

Scotland 1941

 We were a tribe, a family, a people.
Wallace and Bruce guard now a painted field, And all may read the folio of our fable, Peruse the sword, the sceptre and the shield.
A simple sky roofed in that rustic day, The busy corn-fields and the haunted holms, The green road winding up the ferny brae.
But Knox and Melville clapped their preaching palms And bundled all the harvesters away, Hoodicrow Peden in the blighted corn Hacked with his rusty beak the starving haulms.
Out of that desolation we were born.
Courage beyond the point and obdurate pride Made us a nation, robbed us of a nation.
Defiance absolute and myriad-eyed That could not pluck the palm plucked our damnation.
We with such courage and the bitter wit To fell the ancient oak of loyalty, And strip the peopled hill and altar bare, And crush the poet with an iron text, How could we read our souls and learn to be? Here a dull drove of faces harsh and vexed, We watch our cities burning in their pit, To salve our souls grinding dull lucre out, We, fanatics of the frustrate and the half, Who once set Purgatory Hill in doubt.
Now smoke and dearth and money everywhere, Mean heirlooms of each fainter generation, And mummied housegods in their musty niches, Burns and Scott, sham bards of a sham nation, And spiritual defeat wrapped warm in riches, No pride but pride of pelf.
Long since the young Fought in great bloody battles to carve out This towering pulpit of the Golden Calf, Montrose, Mackail, Argyle, perverse and brave, Twisted the stream, unhooped the ancestral hill.
Never had Dee or Don or Yarrow or Till Huddled such thriftless honour in a grave.
Such wasted bravery idle as a song, Such hard-won ill might prove Time's verdict wrong, And melt to pity the annalist's iron tongue.


by Wilfred Owen | |

Winter Song

 The browns, the olives, and the yellows died,
And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed
Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide,
And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,
Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed.
From off your face, into the winds of winter, The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing; But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter, When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing, And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.


by Louise Gluck | |

Saints

 In our family, there were two saints,
my aunt and my grandmother.
But their lives were different.
My grandmother's was tranquil, even at the end.
She was like a person walking in calm water; for some reason the sea couldn't bring itself to hurt her.
When my aunt took the same path, the waves broke over her, they attacked her, which is how the Fates respond to a true spiritual nature.
My grandmother was cautious, conservative: that's why she escaped suffering.
My aunt's escaped nothing; each time the sea retreats, someone she loves is taken away.
Still she won't experience the sea as evil.
To her, it is what it is: where it touches land, it must turn to violence.