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Alliteration Religious Poems | Alliteration Poems About Religious

These Alliteration Religious poems are examples of Alliteration poems about Religious. These are the best examples of Alliteration Religious poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Alliteration | |

THE LAST DAYS

The days seem to go by so fast. there is a void in the air, the birds have lost their vibrant beat, the ocean has lost its luster, the soil feels solid and dry.
 
My soul feels as if it has left my body before my death, my dreams haunt my day, the tears stain my steps, my doctor says that it is depression, I say that it is reality, I am intoxicated by society,I am numb by perscriptions.
 
Why do I feel so isolated within myself? is there no one in my painfully tight shoes? can anyone understand my pain? can anyone melt in my sorrows? why am I this way? why is the world so cruel? why can't I be normal?
 
Wait! I am normal, what am I saying, I know now, the veil has been lifted, humanity is my enemy, the sins that drip from their sweat, the dread that follows their shadows, their souls of black, their intentions of greed pull a shade across their eyes.
 
They are destined for doom, they will not be saved, they will not find salvation, they belittle me, they curse me, they shame me, but they are right about one thing, I am different, unlike them, I will be saved in the last days.


Details | Alliteration | |

When He Breathes

Soft, still, the silence heaves
I inhale, the Spirit breathes;
Flowing, growing Christ bestowing
Life and strength surpassing knowing.

Scented, soothing, respiration
Taking in His inspiration;
Filling, feeling Christ exalted
Love and Grace supremely vaulted.

Sure, secure the Spirit wind
Where flows the Sovereign;
God revealing Christ resplendent
Hope and purpose codependent.

When He breathes upon the morn
Hope has dawned and life is born;
He my all in all shall be
From now unto eternity.


Job 33:4


Details | Alliteration | |

The Seafarer

A Translated Version of the Old English Poem -

The Seafarer

Draw near and hear      the breadth of hardship.
Its lay is seas      of suffering,
of swelling woes      He heaves upon the wave,
those dreadful walls      of water’s rage!
They bear me      bitter depths
of mind and body.      And marking course,
lifting shadows      from the ship prow,
I strain for cliff shapes.      Stark cold stabs me,
Stinging sole      and stirs me
in an icy broth.      Such bree and trough
wears to deeper draft.      Hunger drinks the spirit.
I weary of the seas…
                                          Those souls the world
has overdressed      but weakly dream
of tacking sail,    the seas of perils,
living faith    alone and wretched
and deprived of friend,    depressed by winter winds
and heavy salt-freeze.    Salt-hail breaks the foam.
And I hear my name,    the naked waters call
with cresting, crashing wave.    Yet white swans call.
For my skylarking,    the screak of gannets
and curlew creaks,    they counter nethered taunts,
and mew gull strains    instead of mead.
Tempest hazes cliff,    land terns trill
frosty, feathered stresses,    singing to the storm.
Eagles scream    their screeches of sullenness.
How I mourn the kiss    of care and kin!
    The one who lives    in life’s delights,
who stomachs pride    well plied with wine
and safely housed,    has no hope of trials.
Ah! The weary wash    of water paths!
    Night shade falls    and north snow falls.
Shores frost thick,    shaping, shifting
In pelts of numbing hail.    Now, safe on land,
my trials lure me.    I long to try the brine,
its stinging spray,    and pray to stay the course.
My heartache coos    and claimed, my spirit bills.
    Again, I scud the seas!    Scouting distant vistas,
I fish the shores    of foreign land.
I see against the spray -    So spurned of pride
and free with gifts,    so fierce in youth
and great in deed,    I see the grace of God
saves no one    from certainty of death.
We fear the final will    that awaits the flesh.
I breathe and move for nothing -    My music, birds.
My woman is the sea    and gifts are what I see.
Nothing, but to plow    the pitching waves
That heat such yearnings    of a sea-heart:
Wintered towns flush    with wooded bloom.
The new paints the old    with promises of fruit.
How can I not return    and taste this life renewed?
It sends my spirit    sailing far
upon a flooding love,    this path of living faith.
Summer cuckoos    sing and dance
the songs of sirens,    sweeping weak hearts
in waves of grief.
                                  The ones who grow content
and fatten on the vine,    will never follow suffering,
bruising sea and self    to search the bounds of exile.
All the more my heart    must husk the breast.
My spirit sails    the seas, the yawning crest,
sounding where the whales    ascend the blue
that rides the earth.    It races back
and swoons with longing.    My sole flier sings
and sends me    swimming with the whales,
shipping tracts of sea.    There, I see three truths –
Faith given joys    flame a gentle heart
more than love of life.    Lands are locked in change,
that we should taste    their treats, not keep them.
And I hear three howlings    hot to drown us
in our swim of honeyed milk -    sickness, war and age.
They flog from man    his meteoric flesh
before the fire coals.    Fate knows all and none.
And I learn parables.    We prune our tree
to share the ripened fruit.    Fall will show our caring
and winter sing our faring,    now summer springs not.
I breathe of light!    My breath must melt
the icy grip of Hell    on this heart, these hands,
and force their warmth    against the Frozen One.
A man must stand    for stark resolve.
The Heavens boast    a heart of oak,
its lean for harvest gold.

                                             We hold left lands
of buried glories,    bound to graves long settled.
Men of power mimic    majesties asleep,
their love of labor    lost to easy vice.
Once, labors of love    were labors of truth,
of grand nobility    and gifts of brilliant stars.
The stars are faded,    their fabled joys fallen
to weaknesses.    Our world now wants.
What labors make, we love    and love of nature, lost.
Man’s creations    crust with age
and man will draw    to dust with age.
The years connect    our creasing lines.
We mourn our kin,    the men who die,
Those noble children    chilled in tilled darkness.
Life will leave us all.    Our languid forms
will never swallow    what is sweet of tongue,
nor taste the warmth    of truth, of love, of life.
Before the grave is closed,    it cries for gold
which goodly brothers    freely give, if able.
Yet, buried treasures    for the final trek
will serve no soul    which is soiled in sin.
His wrath is harsh    on he who hoards His wealth
while in this world,    for the world moves
in trepidation,    dreadful of His sword.
    He fashions    the firmament,
founds the lands    and gives them drink.
The Dark Angel stalks behind    and strikes the blind
who hold no fear of God.    A humble life is blessed.
Heaven leads the one    who lives by faith!


                                        m.c.ackerson
                                            © 2015







Details | Alliteration | |

SELAH

   SELAH

As the sharp rays of sunlight slowly sliced
through the tinted tarring clouds
sculpting away the web of darkness of night
I broke off a piece of time and used it
to scrape away the corrosion of agony
from the heart of my mind
and resuscitated my eroded faith. 

Today I will open dusty luggage of creativity
and pull out wrinkled war worn words of creation:
etch ebony emotions of long lived life
onto refined pulp of trees; weave soul stirring songs;
mold scented petals flowering peace and love;
and feel the breath of God warming my serene sweet soul
as He feathers the nest of my pregnant poetic mind.  Selah.