Long Prayer Poems
Long Prayer Poems. Below are the most popular long Prayer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prayer poems by poem length and keyword.
Be the best that you can be,
Never stop to aim so high;
Nor cease to dream so big,
Reaching the star in the sky.
Yes, failures shall happen,
Never give up, try again;
For each and every setback
Is another lesson-learned.
One may explore ways and means,
Creating comprehensive plan;
But only can the Almighty God
Give success to a working man.
Good result makes one smile,
Better outcome is sweeter;
Why not strive for the best?
Be on top by saying a prayer.
In everything you do every day,
Always involve the Almighty;
Prioritize to serve the Lord,
Be the best that you can be.
Prayer Shawl
When summer nights are christened
With chanting crickets –
Last of their summer season song -
Rolling fields of ripening wheat - east of the mountains -
Revisit my mind;
I picture a young woman – suitcase in hand –
Walking away – not looking back –
Face toward a city by the Sound
Leaving fields in echoes of youth
On a journey of one thousand miles.
I walked the journey that she walked,
Suitcase in hand,
The solitary path
That knew the touch of her footsteps
But came from forests evergreen
To hear her crickets
Chant the same symphonies
Abiding in a new home
Bounded by the ocean’s roar
And golden foothills.
She – my Naomi;
I, her Ruth
Embraced upon the crossroads,
Sharing secrets of strawberries
Made into sweet jam;
Where she went
I followed,
Not always in agreement,
As we gleaned new amber fields
Of poppies arm in arm.
To my sorrowing,
The time
When she would again journey
In footsteps
I could not walk
Whispered
An approaching call –
A bugle
With its plaintive sound
Left an echo in her dreams.
One last gift –
A shawl of comfort
For the chill of autumn days -
To remember journeys -
Summer warmth passing,
Yellow colored as the spring
Her favorite
Knit in a loving circle
By words of prayer -
Joined in loops of affection
The time to part
Came quietly
Amid December’s celebrations;
On a still Noel night
She left – no suitcase in hand –
Covered just before she embarked
By my shawl knit with blessings -
All dressed up in prayer -
To be embraced by eternity
In sunshine yellow hues.
No one
Should journey
Back to the eternal
Without a yellow prayer shawl.
Four friends and I, one Sunday, take a ride.
our church still closed just short of one full year.
We drive, white almond blooms on either side,
instead. Their branches wave as if to cheer,
“Prepare the way! Prepare the way for God!”
Each blade of mountain grass we see arise,
like little children singing praises, laud.
Some tiny purple flowers sing reprise,
join fiddlenecks of gold, much like stained glass
to deck the mountain like an A-frame church.
We slowly drive the narrow mountain pass
to see the valley from a lookout perch.
The treetops seem to bow, like they declare
their love for God. In awe, we join their prayer.
March 7, 2021
Breath of Spring Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween.
(She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.)
With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene
and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene
by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more
except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar,
which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore,
and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War.
The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage
to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage,
but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age.
At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire,
attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher),
while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher);
and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre.
Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar,
and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire,
the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire.
The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny,
the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky.
The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”,
and bittersweet, from Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply:
“The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply;
the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.”
The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies
where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies.
Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise,
and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries...
End
The daunting mountain in the undulating terrain of life,
needs to be climbed as the summit alluringly calls,
follow the undefined trail in the surging storm of strife.
Cross with devotion the designed gateways God installs,
and in His prescribed ordain repose your steadfast trust,
faith will show the path in the dark night of dreary squall.
The turbulent ocean of tempestuous life in grueling gust,
needs to be sailed serene, and the last anchorage found,
get guided by His omnipresent beacon with dedication just.
The dark alleys of suffering suffused with silence profound,
need to be lighted, and broken heart recovered from abyss,
in the radiance of divine essence God’s grace will abound.
Floating on prayer hymn the journey isn’t construed amiss,
it takes life through the stillness of soul to the bay of bliss.
September 12, 2021
Contest : "J" Contest, Old Or New
Sponsor : Constance La France
As I woke on Xmas morn, all was quite still,
my breath on the window, crystallized in the chill.
With the Soldiers so far away, many did feel,
the distance had made the war seem surreal.
The war they are fighting, I fear may have no end,
the fanatics that feed it, do not understand.
The Human race is meant to be free,
to make choices and have dreams, for others to see.
Their warped sense of values is not in the Qu ran,
Muhammad's (PBUH) teachings are not kill, then run.
He had many wives whom he honored quite freely,
the love he felt for them all was as Thaira (pure), as a lily.
The fight he tried to teach, this war of Jihad,
is the fight of the good, versus the bad.
Is, meant to be fought inside of each man.
Within his head, not in a desert, in a far off land.
My prayer for this Christmas for all to join hands,
No matter the religion, no matter the clans.
May the peace we all want be within our grasp,
may this fight on terror, and within be won at last.
Thank You God, Yahweh, Buddha, Allah, I say this with reverence,
Call Him Jesus or Krishna, whatever your preference.
Amen
O God of the vineyard, Root of mercy, Keeper of every covenant,
You are the Master who never stops working, the One who digs, prunes, nourishes, and returns again even when Your people wander, weaken, or forget You. Teach me to see Your patience in my own life — the quiet ways You tend my soul, the gentle corrections, the unexpected graftings that bring new strength.
Where I have become wild, heal me. Where I have become barren, renew me. Where I have resisted Your touch, soften my heart so I can bear good fruit again.
Thank You for the mercy that grafts outsiders in, for the grace that welcomes the Gentile, and for the faithfulness that never abandons Israel. Let me never boast in my place on the tree, but stand in humility, knowing I am here by Your kindness alone.
Restore in me the reverence Paul taught — a reverence that remembers the root is holy, the covenant is ancient, and the story is bigger than I am. Let me honor the branches that came before me and rejoice in the branches still to be gathered.
And like the servant in the vineyard, make me willing to labor with You — to lift, to nourish, to heal, to help gather what has been scattered, to strengthen what has grown weak, to love those You have planted in places I do not yet understand.
O God of mercy, graft me deeper into Your love. Let my life bear fruit worthy of Your patience. Let my heart stay rooted in Your promises. And let Your vineyard flourish in me until the day You gather all Your people home. Amen.
Facing challenges
decisions demand
midst rife choices
along multifarious
alternative-offers
with options A - Z
in t r y i n g times
+++++my heart admits apprehension distress+++++
+++++causing m e to languish in a n g u i s h+++++
+++++nonetheless, God in His mercy’s might+++++
+++++offers gracious hope by H I S wisdom+++++
that illumines mind
in seeking His favor
via faith and prayer
toward triumphant
freedom-bliss of an
optimized endeavor
around H I S peace.
*2Corinthians 2:14 Now thanks be unto God, which always causeth us to triumph in Christ, and maketh manifest the savour of his knowledge by us in every place.
September 24, 2021
1st place, "CROSSROADS" Shape Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues; judged on 10/16/2021.
A silent star glistens,
Pulsating on the edges of sapphire
Skies so alive with animated
Joy, bursting from the nocturnal
Forging through the silence,
Erasing the melancholic
With beautiful more amazing
Than the heart’s star gazing…
A silent tear glistens,
Trembling on the edges of the heart,
Moans so deep, inflicting
Hopes and dreams with grief,
Gently coloring the spirit
With a sense of what it means to ache,
Intense as heartbreak,
Breathed by the winds who forsake…
A silent night glistens,
Glowing on the edges of kindness,
Breathing prayer and praise,
To the One who created it all,
Every star, every tear, every night,
Mysteries beyond our describing,
Shadows and songs still hiding,
Beneath the seas of a life…
Life cries out from the spirit’s rising,
Hesitating beneath the light,
Embracing dreams,
Flowing in liquid grace,
Stirring the soul to just see,
He is hope, faith, love like no other,
Love that might suffer,
But love that will never end…
Because of Him, I have a true friend.
Because of Him, I’m saved from all fear.
Because of Him, I’ll have all eternity…
To love the way He always meant me to,
To love because He is the love everlasting,
Even the blind can see – the weak are made strong,
Because He wrote the words to each story…
One fine day, we’ll meet Him there in glory!
Catherine Bryan
1838-1918
Thy swan song will be kept short, for thou
And ye, faithful friends of Whittier’s Quaker enclave,
In stout shock, thy anger scolds the town,
For ye know, in heart and soul,
Thee and this old maid did not approve or agree,
With ye establishment of said saloon,
And its mad proprietor, with mustache in tow.
To God, in his holy anger, thou sayeth:
Do not spare ye town of Whittier,
Please, kindly show no mercy, as ye sinful township,
Heads into the uncertain evil times,
Cease not to spare the damaging quakes,
From thy emblazoned temper in seasons ahead,
For ye Whittier hath dressed obscenely in clothes of mustard yellow,
And hath exchanged them for the proper, black regalia of the righteous,
Yes, proper and good accoutrements for thy people in worship!
But now it is time for the old woman to say:
Ye Whittier! Thou hath forsaken the highest God!
For thy immodest music and dancing,
And thy indulgent viewing of sinful cinemas,
In the darkness of Hades itself, at the Optic,
Ye den of corruption and vice,
Hath spat upon the face of the Lord!
Whittier township, a dead woman says to ye future generations,
From this black place in a forgotten grave:
Ye are damned heathens in thy midst!
Ye reprobates! Ye are not the chosen people!
Instead of worship, and disciplined prayer time,
Ye sit in the dumbing darkness and find Lucifer,
Dreaded star of the morning!
The Optic be damned!