Long Hymns Poems
Long Hymns Poems. Below are the most popular long Hymns by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hymns poems by poem length and keyword.
Since hibiscus is Rose of Sharon...
Hear these hibiscus hymns
reverberating the Saviour
as the Rose of Sharon*
and the Lily of the valleys
with good news of grace
bringing peace and hope
With this psalm of compassion
God heals woes and sorrows
for bright tomorrows, vibrantly awesome
vanquishing pain, frustration, angst
toward triumphant caring.
Amidst song of praise
exalting life-Source
with music of gratitude
I thank His lovingkindness
ceaselessly prevailing, reigning over grief
comforting every distressed soul.
Let hibiscus hymns linger
to echo cheerful wondrous hope
spreading bliss to all
with joy's delight.
*Song of Solomon 2:1 KJV "I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys."
July 25, 2026
4th place, "Hymn of the Heart" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Hiya Sharma; judged on 8/1/2026
Of all the gods and goddesses
Found in Greek mythology,
My favorites are the nine Muses*,
Each means something special to me:
Calliope is epically bombastic;
Urania has stars in her eyes;
Erato's love poems are fantastic;
And Melpomene says of tragedy,
"It's not a play unless somebody dies.";
Polyhymnia's hymns're rafter ringing;
With Clio through history I prance;
Euterpe is kind 'bout my singing;
Terpsichore, not so much 'bout my dance.
But my main muse has always been Thalia,
We were so good together on stage,
And considering how long this gal's been around,
She's holding up well for her age.
Now that I'm no longer acting
I don't see her as much anymore,
Though I know anytime I get stuck for a rhyme,
She'll be there for me just as before.
She says I'm not much of a poet,
My verse is not epic and grand.
And she's right, it's not great, and I know it,
But at least it's not vapid and bland.
She likes to drop by to remind me
Of what she thinks were happier times.
When she wants me, she knows where to find me,
Here, scribbling away at my rhymes.
*The nine Muses: Calliope-epic poetry; Erato-love poetry; Polyhymnia-hymns; Euterpe-song; Thalia-comedy; Urania-astronomy; Melpomene-tragedy; Clio-history; Terpsichore-dance
Boughs of evergreens grace mantles above fireplaces.
Children await Santa Claus with smiles on their faces.
Beribboned wreaths are hung on many a front door,
but to me the spirit of Christmas means so much more.
The greatest gift was not found beneath a tinseled tree.
It was Jesus Christ, who gave up his life for you and me.
Humbly born, he was laid upon a bed of straw in a stall.
God gifted us His only begotten son to give hope to us all.
A present so very precious, one that we can never repay.
He bestowed on us a Savior, the babe born Christmas Day.
We must always hold dear to how much we are blessed,
as we sing 'Joy to the World' when our love is expressed.
We fill our churches with candles, admiring their glow.
As moonlight shines across white fields of fallen snow,
we pray, giving thanks to God, remembering to be meek,
for it's our Father's divine favor that we reverently seek.
Christmas is a time for Christians to celebrate and rejoice,
praising the Lord in lyrical hymns raised in adoring voice.
With myriads of Angels in chorus, let us worship and sing,
"All glory to God," as the bells from church steeples ring.
The true Christmas spirit is not gifts with huge price tags
or new toys for children that fill too many shopping bags.
It should proclaim "peace on earth, good will toward men."
So, to this end we pray to God in the name of Jesus, Amen.
brushed by the blushing Fontainebleau,
blooming with rainless foliage,
like a poem kissed by the green…
I sigh as thoughts wander
in saffron silence,
in the echoing warmth
of your breathing silhouette...
we are beyond wraiths of wildflowers,
waltzing through the wilderness,
sipping honeyed drops of sunlight,
whilst specks of citrine
soar above olives~
merging in mystical mists of magnetic gold,
oblivious to the spectral leaves
thriving within inner forests,
veiling the vindictive vines
painted with ice-corpse colors of life.
O time, cloaked in cryptic clouds~
in a world that cares not for the forgotten,
let the fields of fervent petals
dress the untouched trees
with butterfly-blue blurs,
as peace is more than a mere noun,
nestled between framed figs…
and to heal is to heed the harmonized~
hymns mirroring soft springs of Eden,
where l o v e is an aesthetic array
ribboned with amorous emeralds~
scattered across meadows
lost in redolent reveries.
I speak to the breeze,
cradling the balmy boulevard
in hushed tones~
to unfreeze the wintry thistles,
to untangle complex chords of woes
piercing the pained canvas
aching within my mind..
for in the layered heart
of external pleasures,
there I’ve found the palette~
that homes not regrets and troubles
but elevates the m a g i c
of sketched solace…
the verdant of swirling hope
fine-tuned strokes of sage~
sun-soaked distraction,
a memory of soulmates
tied
to the timeless roots
infused with trust ...
I cannot stand poetic forms
I like them less than winter storms
they force me into ancient norms
of rhyming words in angry swarms
for I was frightened by Haiku
in darkened rooms -- I cried --- boo hoo.
Then came the metronomic tick
sez I: “what is this evil trick?”
now I must measure every rhyme
with tapping stick of metered time
I cannot…. will not, …..won’t ….I say
be forced inside the lines…..to stay.
For I shall dance….the poet’s dance
of shaggy hair….. of tattered pants
dance with those….. in tie and tails
rap with those….. released from jails
free demon words from fear’s cold cell
sing hymns resounding angels bell.
My crayons stray outside the lines
my words creation redefines
I am free to choose my words
soothing balm or cutting swords
to calm the hearts of troubled souls
as shovels digging dying’s holes.
And yet the verse is never Free
for it remains a part of me
wandering a poets hell
secrets it has yet to tell.
5/12/2016
submitted to – Get Your Dr. Seuss On – Poetry Contest
sponsor – The Seeker
My mother's mother and I were very close.
We needed each other
in diversely validating ways.
She needed to know
experience
hear and see and feel and touch
a healthier love of mutual regard
than she felt she achieved
with any of her three daughters.
I needed to feel
I was some loved adult's most significant event,
most vulnerable and transparent grace
for who I felt and knew I was
yet to gay become
without any need to change
what I could not internally rearrange.
When I was a senior in high school
this grandmother became sick with cancer
and depression,
mortal doubts and fear.
I knew this
not because I had visited her
but because my parents
and aunts
whispered their hopelessness
before repeatedly reminding me,
There is nothing I can do
to help her
or prepare myself
for such great loss,
perhaps less great,
more relief,
for them.
But they were wrong.
Wrong about my grandmother.
Wrong about me.
Wrong about us, together.
I knew her favorite hymns.
I was her favorite voice.
We needed no other instruments,
percussive or lyrical.
We had enough time
to revisit our music lessons,
Lyrics are tools for young friendship
Not weapons against old enemies.
Precious Lord
take my hand,
Lead me on
when I can't stand.
I am tired,
I am weak,
I am worn.
Through these trials,
Through this storm,
Lead me on
Precious Lord.
And so we sang
and so I danced
and told her favorite story
of beds too hard,
of friends too soft,
and a child who sings just might
Of Earth too hot
and river beds too soft
and motherlands too cold
and us, now growing distant,
yet singing this last time
just right.
We come in praises
We come to praise Him
The hymns we sing are
All bout' Him Jesus Lord
Jesus Lord of Lords
In Him, in God do we trust
The Him we sing is Jesus, Jesus Christ
He came down from heaven
Come down to save us all
He did no sins but He's chosen
To die for me(us)
Won't you come and embrace Him
Be born again washed and baptized
Hold up your hands
Lift your holy hands and give in and give praise to
Jesus God our almighty King
In Him, in god do we trust
The Him we sing is Jesus, Jesus Christ
1/27/18
BY James Edward Lee Sr.
Came down to save us all
He did no sins but He's chosen
We come in praises
We come to praise HIM
Note: "The original hymn text was written as a "Hymn for Christmas-Day" by Charles Wesley, included in the 1739 John Wesley collection Hymns and Sacred Poems writing, (song) HARK how all the Welkin rings "Glory to the Kings of Kings, "Peace on Earth, and Mercy mild, "GOD and Sinners reconcil'd!. Wesley's original hymn began with the opening line "Hark how all the Welkin rings." This was changed to the familiar "Hark! the Herald Angels sing" by George Whitefield in his 1754 Collection of hymns for social worship." (I chose "Hark The Herald Angels Sing," because it is one of my favorite Christmas songs.)
Truly a king was born, on this cold Christmas morning, in years to come many will mourn. Hark The Herald Angels Sing!
To the birth of a new king, let's celebrate each day, can you hear the church bells ring. Hark The Herald Angels Sing!
This story has been told, over the many many years, it is worth its weight in gold. Hark The Herald Angels Sing!
Date Written 7/27/2020 In honor of John Wesley Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues
1 Place STRAND COMPLETELY NEW (18), any form, any theme Contest Judged: 8/7/2020 Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Wending my way down a country road in my air-conditioned car,
In yon vale a weathered church steeple beckoned me from afar.
'Twas Sunday morning and the clarion peal of its bell caught my ear.
There stood a simple House of God with a graveyard in the rear.
My faithfulness in matters religious had never been that good,
Since attending Church and Sunday School in my childhood.
But something ethereal drew me to that bucolic setting so serene;
I craved deliverance from my stressful and very hectic routine.
I unobtrusively entered the sanctuary and sat in the very last pew.
An elderly pastor ministered to his flock, who numbered a scanty few.
The ancient hymns they sang evoked fond memories as a lad;
My eyes grew misty as I recalled singing them with Mom and Dad.
The pastor preached a simple sermon based on John Three-sixteen,
That would have stirred the soul of a reigning king or queen!
I left that modest but sacred place with renewed hope in my heart,
Inspired by those timeless truths that old pastor did impart.
I've heard profound oratory in majestic cathedrals o'er this sphere,
But never a more soul-searching sermon will I ever hear,
Than from that humble pastor imparting that message of old,
For the ears and souls of his faithful, God-fearing fold.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
God be praised and thanked for He loves me so
He sees my heart of great awe to His name
My soul that yields to His might---He knows well
As He hears glad words* of trust from doubt's fright
His hands hoist my faith that serves by His grace.
Oh, I sing with joy; my mouth shouts blest hymns
Since the Lord* sets me in His grand best will
Full of peace, bliss, hope, I can share midst care---
His light guides my steps from snares of sin blight
Now freed from hell’s sting, I do live for Him.
*Isaiah 61:10 I will greatly rejoice in the LORD, my soul shall be joyful in my God; for he hath clothed me with the garments of salvation…
September 18, 2019
Edited on April 29, 2020
Honorable Mention, "STRAND PICK H, any theme, any form" Poetry Contest Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 4/30/2020.