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Narrative Baptism Poems | Narrative Poems About Baptism

These Narrative Baptism poems are examples of Narrative poems about Baptism. These are the best examples of Narrative Baptism poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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WHO I AM

What if
you
woke up
one
morning
and
discovered
you are
not
who you
thought
you were,
having
suddenly
learned
that your
whole life
from
birth,
the person
you
believed
yourself
to be
is not
who you
really
were meant
to be.

And
at that
moment
you
come to
realize
that you
have been
your
entire life
been
following
the
wrong path
not knowing
what is
the
right path.

Yet
for some
unexplained
reason
you become
aware
there is
a right path
and that
somehow
you have
been
predestined
to find
and
follow it,
knowing
only that
it will
lead you
to discover
who you
really are
and were
meant
to be.

Do
you
know
what
you
would
do?

Really!!!

What
would
you
do?


© Eugene Harvey

Copyright © Eugene Harvey | Year Posted 2013

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Sacrament of Baptism


The day of Pentecost, Church celebrated
Administered Holy Baptism
St. Peter declares
“Repent and be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of sins and receive the gift of the Holy Spirit”

The apostles offer baptism to anyone who believed in Fr. Christ Jesus
You will be saved
You and your household
St. Paul declared to his baptized and with all his family

Baptism is birth into the new life in Fr. Christ Jesus
In accordance with Lord God’s will
It is necessary for salvation
As the Church herself, we enter by Baptism

Baptismal grace includes forgiveness of original sin
Birth to a new life by man becomes an adopted son of the Father
A member of Fr. Christ
A temple of the Holy Spirit

Those who die for faith
 All those without knowing the Church under the inspiration of grace
Seek God sincerely, strive to fulfill his will
Can be saved even if they have not been baptize

With respect to children who have died without baptism
The Church invites us to trust in God’s mercy
The angel of Lord God said
The babies are safe in heaven

Written 09172012

Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza | Year Posted 2012

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January's Dark Light

Dear Sacred Son,

I realize this feels like a Win-Lose
New Game Year,
with you as "Loser"
and so it is,
a self-fulfilling prophecy
equally as powerful
as if you could find a way to choose
this as a Win-Win Game
opportunity, with only shorter term risks likely,
with you as CoWinner
and so it would be,
your new year self-fulfilling prophetic resolution.

January strikes each new year with tough love
messages everywhere you see time's cold harsh claw
fang of Lose-Lose angry threat of fears,
self and other hatred
of political and economic
and personal and familial hypocrisies,
thinking we might ever Win through trying
Love's narrow path
between Angry memories
and their foreshadowing winterish dark Fear
of freezing death.

Especially true, perhaps,
without Advent advantage of more positively waiting
in elational CoMessianic Expectation
during December,
hosting Winter's Solstice
Transition from Win-Win new year expectation
into Lose-MaybeSomedayWin ego pay-it-forward investment
in eco-health and therapy
by divesting of Ego v. Eco SuperCompetitive Pathology.

Even, if not especially,
in cold freezing heart of January,
it feels good and warm to remember Present EcoPresence,
Interior Landscape as cold, cold Exterior Winter Landscape
of dipolar revolution
toward Summer's Win-Win regenerative wealth maturation,
whether incarnate or no longer,
either way,
this year is likely to get much better
within six months,
before things start to shake down
for the next perennial round.

Perhaps it helps to imagine your Interior Landscape
as already experiencing July's warm climaxing Beloved Community,
worshiping together in verdant gardens and fields,
or just sitting in front of any RealTime old-rooted tree
or sublimely octave unfolding flower,
or imagining the beauty of human bicameral consciousness
eco-centric balancing temporal-neural nature
and nurture culture
and iconic language patterns and rhythms,
and information and communication systems,
and history of science and psychology and ecology and evolution,
and then a nap

As warm radiant light
baptizes me in cosmic atmospheric bright
drifting toward another January sunny afternoon,
Interior Landscaping for Win-Win EcoPlay.

Your Always Loving, but also Retiring,

Dad

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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LORD HEAR MY PRAYER

LORD HEAR MY PRAYER. SHOW ME WHICH WAY TO GO. TELL ME WHICH PATH TO WALK DOWN. LORD I HOLD MY HEAD DOWN IN SORROW AND DISGRACE. TEMPTATIONS IS LEADING ME THROUGH CLOSED DOORS OF HATRED. I WANT TO WALK IN YOUR FOOTSTEPS, LORD. 

MY KNEES BLEED FROM BENDING AND PAIN. I CRY HELL TEARS LOSING MY FAITH IN LIFE. I WANT TO BE FREE LORD, FREE OF MISERY AND DAMNED. MY MIND TEMMPTING ME TO  LOSE INSANITY. HELP, ME LORD, EASE MY MIND FROM EVIL MORTAL THOUGHTS. 


I WALK LORD, UNTIL I HAVE SWOLLEN BLISTERS UNDER MY FEETS. NOT KNOWING WHERE I'M GOING. LORD, I'M SO LOST AND CONFUSED. MY VEINS RUNS THROUGH MY BODY SOLID AND HARD, LIKE COAL FROM A BURNING FIRE. 

LORD, PLEASE GIVE ME STRENGHT. TEACH ME HOW TO BE STRONG, FIGHT MY F EARS AWAY FROM ALL THESE WICKED THOUGHTS IN MY MIND. WALK WITH ME LORD, HOLD ME UP, SO I WANT FALL DOWN. SHOW ME LORD, HOW TO HAVE FAITH AND BELIEVE IN MYSELF. I'M LOSING LIFE AND ALL IT'S VARIETIES. LORD, HEAR MY PRAYER, PLEASE BE WITH ME, IN YOUR NAME JESUS, I PRAY. AMEN

Copyright © Robin Brown | Year Posted 2013

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Christ Puissant Touch

The hills of Nagaland, his Motherland, 
A countryside plenteous cultural, scenic landscapes.
When first he cried mamma, 
Father's loving eye called a feast.
At juvenile being send for literature
Still jejune, naive he grew more to drug.
Spend half his life white plagued; 
Homecoming a peddler, 
Potentate dealer of variant hard drug.
Evil favored, sadist none would ostracise heretofore, 
Not until the weakening lying in hospital bed.
No purpose driven laying waste discomfited; 
Anathematize and bescorned.
Doctors ceased this man of multiple organ failure; 
Counted his days of life be lived.
Betwixt life and death: 
'Christ puissant touch mended, healed his feeble body.'
Abhorred by gentiles despite found his lost soul, 
Alleulia Rabbi Jesus he wailed agonizely
Lackaday he knelt and read Psalms 51, 
whence all his sins brought to The Cross where Christ atoned.
With contrite, repentant heart; 
Thenceforth made The Word of God his purpose for life.
Benison, born-again, edified, ordain and sanctified; 
Redeemed many a lives of friends similitude.
Counsel prisoners, addiction where once he dwelled; 
Still lives a servant of Christ mightily being wield.
Speaks of Mark 8: 34, renders Matthew 11: 28; 
Manifest ‘His' omnipresence, unconditional love.
And in him was when I found Christ in me.

Copyright © sukkum chang | Year Posted 2012

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Morning glare

  
I saw it in dark mornings
And I let my friend to see
Its darkness lived in me
My friend cried and tried
But I kept behind darkness
I could see his tears burn
And I saw it again in me
I wanted to stop its glow
It grew so high that it seizes me
But with soft touch of desire it died
I thought it would end today  
But it grew through dawn and twilight
My friend don’t let me die in darkness
Let me die in light to see stars shine

Copyright © Zakhe Michael Mcunu | Year Posted 2014

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our aggression

 Our Aggression 
We`re going out today for a drive, but it was cold and I was 
thinking what had happened to a small town somewhere afar 
and the nature around the town was flat sullen yet silky, but
 it was home for people of peace and young laughter. 
Few people ventured out but sat in their yard in the evening 
now that the town was in the grip of fanatical criminals. 
A few places were open, though, two cafes where men could 
drink coffee but not smoke, cigarettes and waterpipes had
 been outlawed, a sandy field where the young dreamed
 how to get away from this dangerous town drowning in fear
and paralyzing inertia
 No had heard a thing before bombs started falling killing everyone 
 inside the cinema, low flying helicopters came and shot at 
everything that moved, suddenly they left like shadows as
moonless night across a landscape not unlike the Dead Sea.
 Over 500 hundred people were killed mostly civilian and no 
Paris sympathy for them.  
The western world had again conducted a mass murder in the name 
of stopping terrorists. I sit by the fire and wonder why it that we in 
the West thinks it has the right to start wars as we please and why 
is it we so willingly follow demagogues and aggressors where they 
go down the road of ruins, death and suffering, proudly we wear
 their medals, ribbons and we are oblivious to its ghastly irony. 
We wrap us up in patriotic flags; dissent will not be tolerated we are 
so perverted we do not see we are wrapped in a shroud.
 

Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2015

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On Stage

I was on stage the other night,
Entertaining people and showing no sign of fright.
Me, the one who used to be so shy,
Looking them right in the eye,
Giving them their money's worth
And being paid back with their laughter and good cheer.

It felt good,
More than I knew it could,
But as a matter of fact
What I liked best,
Was working with such a great team,
On and off stage they were the best.

To be part of such a team is really quite a dream,
To have their confidence placed in you
Is even more supreme.

So here's to the cast,
May they be friends to the last.
Here's to the producer,
She couldn't have done better.
Here's to lighting and sound 
With no fault to be found.
Here's to props who came up tops.
Here's to make-up who showed us how to face up.
Here's to to the stage manager who made it right on the night.
Here's to the prompt who kept us all in line.
Here's to the theatre which brought us all together.

Copyright © David Smith | Year Posted 2016

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Pieces of poultry

The night was cold and dark , the wind strong and harsh pressing against his back and for a moment he entertained the thought that some divine force was watching and smiling, perhaps even encouraging him.
 Encouraging the tendencies that drove him, muffling the voices inside his head that asked what he was doing. 
He was beginning to transcend into the setting and situation, begging to embrace his role like an instrument in an orchestra, each working in different ways yet still all part of the same song and only together do they create orchestral music. 
Him the same as the violinist who has never played in the orchestra before, playing alone he understand solely the violin and the music he plays, in his mind he cannot fathom what it would be like to play in the orchestra and the process of a variety of sounds coming together. 
Yet upon the incorporation the violinist understand that it is no different than the music he makes alone. The violinist does not appease the orchestra; rather it is the orchestra that calls upon the violin and all the instruments of the orchestra calling upon each other, working to each other’s strengths and weaknesses this is what creates the bountiful flavour of the orchestra.
 It is then that the violinist understands what it means to play in an orchestra. One may listen to orchestral music and perhaps it has even inspired him or her to take up an instrument of their liking. Yet this does not offer them the same insight that the violinist in the orchestra has.
 They can imagine, maybe they play pieces from their favourite orchestral movements, perhaps they even go as far as playing along with the recording of an orchestra, entertaining the thought of what it would be like to play with the harps and drums and flutes, yet regardless of their manifestation they can never have the same insight as that the violinist who actually plays in the orchestra, who makes it a reality. 
And if it is not that reality, then it never will be and the fruitions of it will never come to ripen in the head of the pretender, because if the tape stops, it’s over.

Copyright © chriss todd | Year Posted 2014

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bus shelter

Bus Shelter 
Driving past a crudely made bus shelter, it looks like concrete box
I took a picture because a mystery story was told about it.
A stormy winter night a man found the shelter it had a bench 
glad the he was dry and he waited and waited only the bus didn`t 
drive on this road any longer.
Years later passers-by found a skeleton the police was called but
the bones had no papers to tell his name and a mystery was born.

My dog disappeared when she found her way home she was
tired and petrified and like the skeleton could tell me nothing.
I think she was lured into the van of a hunter, tied up in his backyard to 
be trained as a hunting dog. She got loose and ran and
ran perhaps for days and too scared to approach people.
She overcame this trauma lived a long life and now is a skeleton in 
a black bin bag in the outhouse.

Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2016