Long Hymn Poems
Long Hymn Poems. Below are the most popular long Hymn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hymn poems by poem length and keyword.
"Return to Bourbon" (The Gritty Underbelly of New Orleans)
I left my soul in a crawfish boil
And my transgressions in a taxicab, Where the driver was blind in one eye
And the meter was stabbed.
The gutter gurgles like a gospel hymn
Also, the rain comes down hard, like a drum, But Lord, I’d give up my rent-stained mattress
Just to feel that voodoo hum.
The Quarter ain’t what she used to be,
I, on the other hand, am not— I got a scar where my halo was
And a suitcase full of lies.
Mama called it the Devil’s playground,
I called it home with a grin—
'Cause even the rats tap dance down Chartres
When the bottle lets the jazz back in.
The hotel's wallpaper contained apparitions, And prayers scratched in the stalls.
They don’t ask where you came from,
how far down you fall. I sleep next to regret and rust now,
In a city too clean to trust—
However, I'd give up this silence for a good howl. in a shotgun residence with damaged ductwork. Yeah, I miss the roaches in the beignets,
The smell of blood and rain—
You are not forgiven by the city, But she’ll always know your name.
DWELLER OF OUR HEART
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Poem written for and submitted to “Dweller of Our Heart Poetry Contest,” Unseeking Seeker, sponsor, August 3, 2025
Line of Inquiry: “the essence in us is the same as the essence of the sun
Sunrise:
Standing on the cliffs and looking onto the horizon
I watch the sun melt like a promise
Closing my eyes and taking in the warmth,
I feel the pulse of light, a vibration stirring my thoughts:
What is the sun but a promise,
a blazing heart that beats for all?
What am I but a similar *promise,
a possibility in God’s plan?
What is God but a promise,
a pulsation connecting us all?
I feel His heartbeat, the pulse,
of the ancient and divine.
I share the same flame as the sun,
that essence binding me to Him.
Therefore, I am the sun, and the sun is in me,
a celestial mirror, a holy unity.
My spirit rises, a luminous thread
binding me to the universe.
My heart, now a flaming orb, shines light into the darkness
illuminating my path and showing me the way.
Afternoon:
The day lengthens; I ascend like the sun
with a pulsating heartbeat, the divine within my soul.
*Note: “I am a promise, I am a possibility,” title and words of a popular Christian hymn written and produced in 1975, Bill and Gloria Gaither, songwriters.
Line of inquiry:
“Neither desire nor aversion
Meditation our immersion
Conditioned beliefs discarded
Hymns we hum are our own version”
A child I was, when Nuns taught me in school;
so God was with me from an early age.
The catechism shaped for me each rule-
my soul's foundation at this tender stage,
to help unlock a door I would engage.
My reading about God was not the key-
but seeing what He is- enlightened me.
That feeling that He's near in all I do,
the balances of nature, my guarantee-
internal hymns of love, faith, hope, accrue.
I sing the hymn of Love through family,
and feel God's care is echoed from each heart.
I sing the Hymn of Faith, a tapestry
of sunset glow that leads to a fresh start,
and sing my Hymn of Hope on new day's chart.
Love, Faith, and Hope are His Amazing Grace-
my heart and soul, with God there, interface.
A rich tapestry of colors light up her name
With hues of lilac and crimson in a soft flame
Whispering of the rich and brilliant praises
Her words have obtained with their phrases
Flowing across the page like a gentle rain
Her nouns and verbs show how they do pain
The hearts of millions who read their delights
Caresses to the spirit who listens with insights
Feeling alive to the dance her words cause
Always awakening feelings to give such pause
Singing with miracles from the angel’s lips
Like glowing poetry left to present their scripts
Heavenly skies filled with stars, moon and charms
Welcoming the senses to be embraced in sweet arms
Sent on the wings of doves who ease the reflections
With visions of hope, happiness and inspiring connections
Louisa May Alcott wrote her heart out in Little Women
Giving us all reasons to believe we’d sing some hymn in
The satisfaction that came from knowing such a story
I doubt she ever knew her tale would bring alive such glory
She carved in my bones
Before I could comprehend
My body was a temple
But she never mentioned
How it was crafted from stolen stone —
Every wall lined with ancient scripture
Shame plastered over the cracks
Commandments hung like blackout curtains
Every hymn was a rallying cry:
Kneel, obey, don’t you dare question
Go on and bury that doubt
But
Did she count on my defiance
I was labeled a vessel--
But never the storm
Her god demanded sacrifice
So she chiseled away my essence
To fit her fragile frame
My hips; forbidden gateways,
My tongue: an unholy scroll of secrets
If this is a temple
Then set it on fire
Let the flames scream louder than my demons
My body is a temple —
But it belongs to me
And I refuse to apologize again
Before the bones of thought were raised,
before the first bright nerve could sing,
there slept between the coded words
a silent, patient everything.
They named them introns—idle script,
forgotten echoes, wasted space;
yet every age has mocked the seed
before it flowered into grace.
The sequencer became my star,
its lasers soft as morning rain;
through quantum whispers, folded time,
it mapped creation's hidden vein.
Each electron paused in dance,
each proton hummed a measured hymn;
the universe was reading us
while we believed we studied Him.
Within the so-called empty code
lay memories older than the sun—
the mathematics of the tide,
the blueprint of what we'll become.
Perhaps the psychic is no ghost,
nor miracle beyond our sight,
but consciousness unfolding still
through genomes learning how to write.
The mind may reach beyond the skull
as gravity escapes the star;
entangled thoughts on unseen threads
remember who and what we are.
So let the sequencer proceed—
not merely counting A, C, G, and T—
but listening for the cosmic verse
between necessity and song and verse.
For every strand we dare to read
reveals another left unseen;
and every answer gently asks
what all this hidden code may mean.
We are not accidents of dust,
nor prisoners of flesh alone;
we are the universe itself,
awakening within its chromosome.
The Greyhound reels over creaking axles.
Northern Kentucky puts on weight in summer,
a green mélange thickens,
yet inside our trundling tube,
joints rattle,
gears burn through paunch and muscle.
We lurch over a crest down into a holler
An old Shaker Hymn booms across the radio:
When we find ourselves in a place just right
'Twill be in the valley of love and light.
I have often longed to be 'in a place just right,'
to be at ease in these bucking bones,
even when breathing this smother
of body odor and diesel.
Then we dip down into a valley.
At a wooden store advertising cold beers
we stop.
"Is this the right place?" I ask.
"It’s as close as we get", says the driver.
Oh, the poet sees you not just as a fleeting shadow that fades into horizons,
He falls in love as the sun in gold transfigures the curve of your cheeks,
In the line of the smile that steals your guarded secrets, fragments of hopes gathered,
In the tones that around your fingers display codes of lights and dreams.
He is captivated by the vibration of the air when his name is a hymn on your sculpted lips,
He sees ocean depths and stellar explosions in the pigment of your iris full of delicate reflections,
He notices how shadows, in their reverence, outline your form, canvases on which histories are written.
In silent chambers, places not filled or solidified by words,
A poet with a generous heart will find you, beating in unison with the melody that resonates within you.
With eyes that see beyond veils, he extends your being into the most subtle and precious whispers,
He will weave you into immortal verses, every beauty captured is a star in your personal constellation.
Keeper of souls, the poet does not sit as the executioner of your heart,
For he himself, having passed through the fire of mistakes, has learned the art of redemption,
He, bearer of lights in the heavy night, traverses the sunken sentences
Where the word finds its cradle, and his touch is a balm for wounded souls.
In his crafting with the grammatic brush, he resurrects forgotten meanings, and in poetry
He rewrites manuals of love, where every wound finds the ointment of a sublime peace.
He steps, a charmer of silent wisdom, through the antechamber of hearts,
Leaving behind emblems of his passage, inscribing in history cantos
That celebrate the candor of moments and the vastness of human love.
Each scar becomes, in his odes, an illuminated altar that ceaselessly watches over the wellspring of life.
And thus, the master of this arcane lexicon becomes the architect of the kingdoms of imagination,
Immortalizing in his profound rhymes the thirst for affection, for connection, for remembrance.
A Rousseau of words, painting the unexplored jungles of emotions,
Where every mark left, whether it is a gentle step or a sign of suffering, transforms into an ode to existence.
“Jesus, Lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly
While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high!”
This is the first verse of the hymn “JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL”
penned by Charles Wesley
Secured in my Saviour’s compassion-might
Blest to be so loved, though undeserving
Oh, my heart in Jesus Christ finds delight
Precious best Friend*, eternally loving.
Offering boundless mercy, hope and grace
God reaches my soul, granting full pardon
Settling me around His divine embrace
Precious best Friend, eternally loving.
Facing trials, my faith valiantly stands
Upheld by the Lord, triumphantly strong
He’s my Fortress, vanquishing doubt-demands
Precious best Friend, eternally loving.
As called steward for His work partnership
My spirit exalts the Supreme Master
While blissfully meeting Him in worship
Precious best Friend, eternally loving.
*Proverbs 17:17 A friend loveth at all times...
John 15:13 Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
August 9, 2020
2nd place, "In honor of Charles Wesley" Premier Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues; judged on 9/3/2020.
"See: A Marriage Worthy, Letters Offered to an Aching Bride"
See
The blood of man
drips from his fingers
note the true
Son of Man
No loud crimson
cardinal feathers
gently caressing
psalming minds
No White Hat
nor flag in hand, yet
Purple hearted
when War came
carrying in his
arms crucifixion
nails for bullets
in palms holy human
outstretched
lobbying armies
and splitting sides
dripping red, and
blue bruised, the once
good book holders
debating defense
four seraphim and
their regiments
glistening oily black
misunderstood magi
with their presents
now fierce and hell bent
whirling dervish
baptising all those
heaven sent
dripping their fire
burning gold,
myrrh and frankincense
transfusing the just
the bled out pacifists
now all undressed
Holy Sees truth
for what it means
now all unblessed
the stripping of brides
standing firm
in their pure virginal beliefs
they come hymn singing
riding astride
the four horsemen
caught up in
a marriage
worthy
of an honour guard
attention arching
Apocalypse
The 3 unsealed
slow letters offered
to an aching bride
to freely choose
her husband’s
best side
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"If you close your eyes
and you pick a side
Will you follow blindly
into the darkness?
If you close your eyes
and you pick a side
Will you find yourself
broken and heartless?
In a world on fire,
in a world on fire"
"If in some smothering dreams,
you too could pace
Behind the wagon
that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes
writhing in his face,
His hanging face,
like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear,
at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from
the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer,
bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores
on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell
with such high zest
To children ardent
for some desperate glory,
The old Lie:
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori."
(excerpt Wilfren Owens -
"Dulce et Decorum Est")