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Baptism Narrative Poems | Narrative Poems About Baptism

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

Details | Narrative |

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


Details | Narrative |

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


Details | Narrative |

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.


Details | Narrative |

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.