Long Baptism Poems. These are the most popular long Baptism by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Baptism poems by poem length and keyword.
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You are, And I am,
The Body of Christ, Of an earthly man,
Purchased by His sacred blood! A sinner, living in iniquity!
Pure and precious in nature A presumptuous transgressor,
True riches and infinite wisdom Of divine teachings,
Can only be found in You! Of the Father--the Greatest King!
You are the light of life And I walk in darkness
To those who believe in righteousness For I'm led to falsity and deception
As they reside in Your blessed peace! By the sweet-talking parsons of lies!
You preached the gospel, I ignored your presence
To the GEM many came to listen, For my fixation was on seen things
But few are chosen! From which I gained nothing!
You saw the emptiness in my heart I was touched by Your noble deeds
And that You gave me invitation That I accepted Your call, gladly!
To be apart of You! And later, I found the truth in You!
You are in me and I'm in You! And thru the Holy Baptism, I am redeemed!
And I became a true Christian. In one spirit, we share our firm conviction
To those who seek the long and treacherous road towards salvation!
Sharing our gifts from Heaven could change one's life, forever!
For great fortune is ours, as we make life better for others
And for them to be called into the Supreme Church!
For truly, I will abide in the Holy Scriptures,
To constantly praise and worship God,
For I am, sure and without doubt,
An offspring of His unselfish
THREE year olds know about circles. They play
ring around the rosy and here we go round
the mulberry bush. And if one should say
that in reality nowhere is found
a perfect circle, they either don’t hear
or won’t buy it. Yet. Another year
or so they’ll eat the awful truth and then
conventional wisdom will slip right in
to its proper place and babyish why
will give way to unexamined lives. Sin
preached from pulpits at preschool shrouds PI.
POINT to the red stop circle. Here’s the way
to walk safely: keep one foot on the ground
at all times. Slowly and steadily. Stay
between the lines and never let the sound
of critical thinking distract your ear
from the sound of my voice. I love you, dear.
Trust me to tell you what you need know when
you need to know it. I tell you, I’ve been
granted credentials. Listen to me, I
pledge allegiances, comfort and even
wealth. Conformity’s requirements stifle PI.
ONE damp March morn, buzzards circled the gray
expanse of four-laned wasteland where a hound
dog had foolishly chased a dove away
from any sign of obedience. Mound
after mound of petrified organs. Clear
chords rang out. But the harsh grind of the gear
of market driven semis hauling men
and their pimp wares of lies told by vermin
with disposable fantasies rolled by
and outscreamed the prelude of peace. The end
justifies. Wall Street domesticates PI.
FOUR the fourth time, circle in ink to play
lucky numbers. Fortune cookies abound
with their scratch off oracles of big pay
and tight buns and white cuspids. Wrap-around
leather skirts lust for more time and sincere
pleas for help get downsized. Year after year,
oblivious to the tipping of win
or lose scales to the right and left to grin
and bear it. Occasional urge to cry
‘til imbalance seems natural. If your skin
crawls take medicine. Addictions cloud PI.
ONE nation under God circles to sway
one lord one faith one baptism? Joshua downed
Jericho and Truman blessed Enola Gay
to drop her horrid load Does it astound
anyone anymore? Or has the fear
of death obscured sacred tidings of cheer
and replaced them with slick prayers to low men
in high places? Hallelujahs in thin
screechy voices. Who will dare to ask why?
Blind patriotism and religion
unsupported by spirit torture PI.
AND SO ON TO INFINITY. Again
and again and again. There’s never been
an end or even a pattern. We fly
around in circles, unaware. But when
we wake, we will come face to face with PI.
the capitalized first words in each stanza when taken together are pi
For all it's worth...
Outside of the 75% cotton,
25% linen fibers,
Green ink handicapped to dry,
a splash of cocaine,
with photos of
Histories Harlot's modeling wigs!
My bad, almost forgot about the coins...
Lincoln facing thee other way
Symbolizes the turning of his back
For being an abolitionist... Coincidental?
The coin with melanin has the least worth
Now that's some bullturd!
E Pluribus Unum's baptismal of 1956,
Resurrected $aint Moola... so now,
To have God folded in your pocket,
leased to your desire?
How about the cocaine-laced bills
Tithed by its drug trafficking congregation...
I'm sure Jesus never powdered his nose
Here' another one
Does your Faith become anorexic,
Due to a dieting billfold?
Well here's the problem... Worship
The idolater pains for painkillers
Those prayers receive signs of want
In excess of the necessities
Overlooking the brimming cup
We know, The Jones' sprinted from the womb,
Governing speeds for all,
Providing a breathtaking view of their backs...
Here's the blueprint to changing faith's?
Money can't buy a 6 oz can of hope
When the vehicle being driven
Inhale the fumes in the reserve
It can't afford a guarantee
To cure cancer the connoisseur
When free information about your
PH Balance is possibly boosting our alkaline
Killing the demonized salmon spawn
The noodle-wrapped pack of love which
Suffices the malnourished lovesick
Hasn't develop a barcode to date
The friendly lamb, which offers itself
Bares the rewards of foul offerings
Of a trailmix blended with money and friendship
Mixing the 2, it becomes business
A smile with wounds scab slowly
For stretching the sores that secure happiness
The second most sought after stability
Spending under serpent-like improvisions
We swallow spit made for spew
Searching its dung for joy
Just remember money can't afford
You and your loved ones, A Tomorrow!
Some Money Bullturd Minted On This Day, 08-Twenty-Something-2013
Dead Winter Stray~ By: Poet Destroyer
Nearby paces, Combatants lost under the cemetery walls,
“Blessed Men and Heavenly Remedy Women of Ages,”
Feelings of dance at the beginning of nightfall,
Scenery of fire, sadness passing this history page,
In that distant curve, somewhere nears the sundown stream.
Far away from the vision of mortal eyes,
A child plays as beautiful and pale like the sunrise.
She plays on the coast this beautiful but pale, sun raised child.
Pursuing nature, in a hushed angelic lucidity,
“In hushed angelic lucidity!”
Fragile fastened, to those adequate bones.
Profound deepness beneath the snow winder dust,
Below the memoirs of her floating vessel,
Reminisces of water drowning down rivers and streams,
A shattered female kneels in salvation.
An anvil so heavy it troubles the mind.
Lost in profoundness, in what might have been.
What was, for a moment in this period?
The grimness of her weak vessel dwells.
A lifeless winter strays around.
An album so old and dusty,
A christening gown not ever embraced.
Infinite, the woman and pale child of sunrise,
Soften footfalls beating out the torments.
Countless nights seeing the day of unspoken headstones,
Feelings of dance will never rest this heartache.
Eternity, in a dance of unconditional need,
Their hearts unite as one...
A closing of mother and child…
Dead Winter~ By: Catie Lindsey
There walks Warriors in that graveyard,
Holy Men and Medicine Women of ages;
at night you can see their Spirits dance,
setting fire to history's pages.
In that far corner, up by the stream,
far from the eyes of publicity,
she plays on the shore, beautiful Raylene,
catching poly-wogs, in silent lucidity.
In silent lucidity.
Brittle now, those fine bones,
deep beneath the snow drifts of winter,
beneath the memories of her body afloat
down rivers and streams of Remember.
A broken woman kneels in prayer,
a heavy weight on a burdened mind,
somewhere deep in what could have been,
what was, for a moment in time.
The grayness of her frail body lingers,
in a dead winter of the unborn,
on page forty-nine in the family album,
in a baptismal gown never worn.
Together they dance,the woman and the child,
their soft footfalls pounding out the sorrows
of many days at a worn out headstone,
many dances to come, many tomorrows.
Together they dance, The Woman's Dance,
their hearts as one...
the woman and the child.
~By: Catie Lindsey~
(for Catie's: Re-write contest..)
let every old woman with a wrinkled face,
she should be aware,she lives in disgrace,
a furrowed brow,hairy lip and single tooth,
know me well,i'll get the truth.
a squinty eye and scolding tongue,
the squeaky voice she's had from very young,
you will never hide from me,
i'm the witch hunter general you see.
my name shall be feared throughout this land,
my hunting of witches will go as planned,
first you'll be tossed into a cell,
stripped naked and starved,until you tell.
i'll start to prick to cause you pain,
and i'll do it over and over again,
then you'll be bound to stool or table,
cross legged of course,even if you're not able.
after twenty four hours the cramps will set in,
again poked and prodded,but i'll use a new pin,
you'll then walk the stones til your feet bleed,
still i reckon you don't get to feed.
then you're taken for a swim in the lake,
your baptism water you didn't take,
if you're innocent you will drowned,
but if you sink a true witch i've found.
this cruelty wasn't enough,mathew got no kicks,
a new style was developed,it only took two ticks,
he bent victims double,tied thumb to big toe,
a rope round the waist,in the water they'd go.
these people were worn down by his torturous way,
but hopkins was going to have his say,
one question he used in the brow beating session,
you're aquainted with the devil,i want a confession.
a nod or monosyllabic reply will do the trick,
or my man will beat you again with the stick,
then poor john lowes,a suffolk minister of note,
was told you're a witch,i can tell by your coat,
a quarrelsome gent of seventy was poor john,
disliked by many,they wanted him gone,
hopkins took the task to prove he was right,
john was kept awake for many a day and a night.
they ran him till he was out of breath,
he was weary, and scared half to death,
so he confessed to get some peace,
then the torturous pain would cease.
hopkins said"another one i didn't let survive",
john went to the scaffold august 1645,
no cleargy would read for him at his grave,
a villager said"to the devil john was no slave".
who knows how many poor sould were lost,
letting hopkins rule,had it's own cost,
more than 200 people this way met their fate,
by the time hopkins hit norfolk,it was too late.
his trials of blood passed through our countryside,
in his work mathew hopkins took great pride.
Harry (written by Steven Cooke)
He stairs through the window
In wheelchair he knows,
Gabriel is just a pause behind him.
His last duty, to open a door in his mind
Of memories torn from 1917, where he left,
Jack Fred and Bert, Pals forever.
A moment singled out from a thousand days of torment
Bully Beef, Baccy and sweet tea in the Morning.
A pair of socks from a loved one,
And friendship forged in the baptism of War.
These were his treasures, His only relief
Then the guns of Britannia, manufacturing widows by the gross, as
Gas and Shell screamed for their quota of today’s carcass.
For a moment Harry felt sadness for his foe
Then it was gone
Heart Beating, Breath quickening, Stomach in Knots,
Fear held in check to avoid the Officer’s gun,
No time left, Stay Close Jack, Fred glanced,
While Bert squeezed a locket around his neck
A quick nod, The Soldiers farewell
Then the whistle, Gabriel’s Horn, over the top
His refuge abandoned, for the embrace of the fog,
It masked the land, as if to avoid offending God
Slowly creeping its vale of death,
Gun in hand they walked into the grey.
Fodder for the Machine gun, No defense, we fall.
Once more our lads are summoned into oblivion.
There blood sanitizing the soil with England’s youth
Like a red carpet, for their comrades to walk the next day.
Then the retreat, back to his rat infested trench
Gods reward he thought,
Then Role call, Silence for Jack, Silence for Fred, and Silence for Bert
Harry felt shame in answering, for a second; he too wanted to embrace silence with
But Soldiers must go on, as do the righteous
And England expects
For I fight for a Heavenly cause, so I’m told,
Though I do not know what that is
All I know is fear
Although this impostor, I can live with
You see my friends are gone;
My humanity is lost
And my soul awaits its next trial
Is it a blessing that I am alive or,
Just a delay,
For death stalks me, waiting for his reward.
My sanity saved only by the sweet tea and a fag,
Dry socks, and a letter or two from home.
No time for sentiment, the whistle,
Oh, there you are Gabriel welcome.
Hello lads where you been.
The Christmas lights shine while the temple bells
Toll. The baby lies bloody on the bed- 'delivered'.
Its dusk, a shade of grey dusk but again a dark blue
Around the corner; not a sound did roll nor did light
Strike and it slept. Hush baby... they will come! Among
Her broken toys and impaled dolls she sleeps like the
Child of time- she is black.
Again, the star shined and the bells tolled and they came- all over her,
They trampled and burnt her sins away. Smoke and soot and hell fire
Rained everyday and she took it all in. Like the voracious petals of the
Venus fly trap, those lips of hers engulfed them and stayed content.
It lay in the night... At least she had the night. She was content. Slowly
The saffrons, the whites and the greens entered her hollow being
Day after day and she did not know where they came from.
Even the one to be delivered that rested inside her grew impatient.
It broke free and she lost. It was buried amidst the fanfare and
Ho hum of those colors. The same colors that devoured her sins
And had her delivered, and now they lie in constant wait for the
Reigns to break so the stake is theirs to burn. The witch must burn.
The Green must burn, the saffron must be severed and the white
blackened they thought.
The witch died, and so did they but not the colors. As the
Child in time sleeps under every roof, so does those black eyes
With glowing fangs, under the bed. Just below the flesh
And the wooden bed, you can hear it breathe and crave blood
And carnage. Every street, every devil's bend, every wall bears
Its name. Yet it hides, kills, plunders and hides. Yet another
Deliverance and another coming against the eclipsed sun.
Tomorrow if a life is born I shall warn and mourn and curse
The deliverance coz the colors will lie in wait under its bed.
Sharp talons and itchy fingers waiting for it to blossom and
Tear it up in pieces. Yes! This is our deliverance... We all shall
Be delivered some day. But, I hope my child of time is colorblind
And comatose- Maybe dead. For then it wont hear the evil crawling
Under its bed, see them on the streets and feel them inside itself.
That day will be her baptism and maybe she will wake...
© Malyaban Lahiri
The night of twelfth December `69
knotted together an icy storm wind
that whipped False bay`s waves
to white -frilled blankets.
Thunderclaps against primal rocks
resonated through a ghettoe of glowing tents
on a dark, rough ,bushy patch .
Rising plaintively above the din
of drums and flapping canvas,
creole strains solicited the capricious gods
for a clement Cape .
Love songs , sweet like wine
would even tittilated mermaid`s melons,
stranding them breathless, with tails scaled.
In my sixteenth tempestuous year,
I was sickened and sullied, spoiling for a fight
with that ever- prying, ever-lying police-state
in an all-pervasive racist propaganda storm
Harmony,was forced ethnic relocation right there
in a stamp-size sea-resort next to a stinking dump.
Our yearly anticipated salty baptism,
fouled for a full ten years,
dunked in fascist soil
of a false bay with a real bite….
rubbing coarse salt in our opened wounds
Rubbing it in the flayed
William, my sire, of the black turf belly
Rubbing it in the lashed
Maxie , my ma , of white-on-black graft
Rubbing it in the spurred
Dot Adams, my oracle , of the pearled-truth tongue
imprisoned to a silent ninety-day solitary confinement. .
Yes, a full two hundred scar-studded waxes
avidly saluting the wretched who rose in revolution
drowning exploiters in the oppressed`s precious blood
Algeria whilst raped,unveiling herself,
firing fear into bared French fascism
exploding the myth of a benevolent colonialism.
“Lumumba will guide the Kongo to freedom”
grandpa agitated hopefully as revolutionary Patrice,
our dark prince of peace
died on the bloodied butts
of neo-colonial carbines.
My seven-year heart burst
in anger and pain.
A companiable heart`s balance
tilted with unease at justice , unhinged.
the periodic uprisings of people in far-flung regions
against the arrogance of anglo-saxon imperialism
salted my youth with the tears of broken children,
their blood ever spattering my angry brow.
Valley’s of sleep that hold on to virtue through the years,
Distant from the arms of cities where vice and lust rule governments,
Where social values preach chastity to innocent hearts,
Where the earths depressions shelter Mr. and Mrs. Purity,
A v-shaped river valley of the virgins who roam there,
With rivers streaming from cities to valley’s that bleed desire,
Trapped they are by steep gradients with steep walls and narrow bottoms,
The cherubim keep shame societies there like puppets until the cherries blossom
Valley’s of cherries tucked away by pseudo morality, un-pollinated and stamen
locked up like relics,
Botanical gardens of exotic fruits and sacred flowers,
Kept there by valleys of locked up atriums where keys are closely watched by
Vestal virgins with holy books as bosoms and nothing else,
In river valleys where streams of life’s juices are currents that flow in all directions,
Where church robes run from river baptismal’s of full immersion,
A sexual awaking blocked by dams that reach the heavens,
celestial ornaments of purity hung on swinging trees like botanical gardens to be
with winds that push and push until they are broken from branches falling below to
rivers that carry them away from brother and sister virtue,
sexual appetites subdued by chastity belt covered mouths that kill truth searching,
Sexual liberation, and the separation of the spirit hold separate experiences like the
sun and the moon,
finding the secrets that make the soul the soul requires a boat to carry souls
through rites of passage,
Horns are blown in glacial valleys to shake melting ice that flows leaving sediments
of intimacy behind to germinate in spring,
Human nature is the flower pollinated by romanticizsim that breaks away from
stems of adolescence and dogmatic aged tree branches,
Floating away in winds and water’s to cities where guilt is thrown off bridges,
rocks tied to feet where it sits at river bottoms like the Ganges,
only to resurface at the end of life’s death with purity and wisdom.
Baptism of Spirit and of Water
Tis an Inward-Outward Showings
Of whom you belong to
Cleansing you through and through
Preparing You.. to be whole
Sin Free.. As God Planned us to be
Baptism of the Spirit
Tis In-ward showing..
Manifest within Heart..
TenderHeart Of Glorious Love..
Given from above
When you became born-again
Holy Spirit comes within
speaks unto you..
Closer Walk with Jesus
You can Hear... His Divine Voice
His words spoken
Spoken.. within your heart...
Divine Love tis a Glorious token
You received Holy Spirit within
Within Your heart..
Eternal Flame begans
Cleansing you through and through
From inside-of you
Within You.. Your
Mind... Will.. Emotions..
Giving you wisdom and understanding
Right from wrong... Knowing
Whom you belong too
Christ in You... and the Hope of Glory
Jesus in you--You in Jesus
Baptism by Water
Tis Cleansing you
Manifest in-ward to Out ward Showing
Whatever tis in-ward.. inside your heart
Shall then manifest Out ward..
Showing all.. to whom you belong to
Tis Manifest.. the Real You..
You within your heart
If you lie.. about what's inside.. your heart
Tis Shows.. when Your Baptized
Baptized in The Name of The Father The Son The Holy Ghost
What takes place.. that you face
You died just like Jesus..
As you are Emerged under water..
Then when you come out of the Water
You.. tis Risen Just Like Christ..
You died and Risen.. Water Baptism
Then in Life.. Truth Shall Prevail
When you get Baptised..
Make sure You are Right with the Lord
That You sincerely asked for Forgiveness
For if your not..
Your life.. be such a mess
Be Right with the Lord
Sincere.. within Your heart
Then do what Jesus done
John the Baptist
Baptized Jesus.. God's Only Son
Heavens Opened Wide
Father Spoke "This is My Beloved Son"
"In Whom I am Well Pleased"
Come to Jesus
Be Baptized in the Spirit
Then be Baptized in the Water
Cleansed Through and Through
Preparing.. You and me