445 Religion poems

Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean The children walking two & two in red & blue & green Grey-headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door

I will build a house of rest, Square the corners every one: At each angle on his breast Shall a cherub take the sun; Rising, risen, sinking, down, Weaving day’s unequal crown. In the chambers, light as air, Shall responsive footsteps fall: Brother, sister, art thou there? Hush! we need not jar nor call; Need not turn to seek the face Shut in rapture’s hiding-place. Heavy load and mocking care Shall from back and bosom part; Thought shall reach the thrill of prayer, Patience plan the dome of art. None shall praise or merit claim, Not a joy be called by name. With a free, unmeasured tread Shall we pace the cloisters through: Rest, enfranchised, like the Dead; Rest till Love be born anew. Weary Thought shall take his time, Free of task-work, loosed from rhyme. No reproof shall grieve or chill; Every sin doth stand confest; None need murmur, ‘This was ill’: Therefore do they grant us rest; Contemplation making whole Every ruin of the soul. Pictures shall as softly look As in distance shows delight; Slowly shall each saintly book Turn its pages in our sight; Not the study’s wealth confuse, Urging zeal to pale abuse. Children through the windows peep, Not reproachful, though our own; Hushed the parent passion deep, And the household’s eager tone. One above, divine and true, Makes us children like to you. Measured bread shall build us up At the hospitable board; In Contentment’s golden cup Is the guileless liquor poured. May the beggar pledge the king In that spirit gathering, Oh! my house is far away; Yet it sometimes shuts me in. Imperfection mars each day While the perfect works begin. In the house of labor best Can I build the house of rest.

Tulsidas, the poet, was wandering, deep in thought, by the Ganges, in that lonely spot where they burn their dead. He found a woman sitting at the feet of the corpse of her dead husband, gaily dressed as for a wedding. She rose as she saw him, bowed to him, and said, "Permit me, Master, with your blessing, to follow my husband to heaven." "Why such hurry, my daughter?" asked Tulsidas. "Is not this earth also His who made heaven?" "For heaven I do not long," said the woman. "I want my husband." Tulsidas smiled and said to her, "Go back to your home, my child. Before the month is over you will find your husband." The woman went back with glad hope. Tulsidas came to her every day and gave her high thoughts to think, till her heart was filled to the brim with divine love. When the month was scarcely over, her neighbours came to her, asking, "Woman, have you found your husband?" The widow smiled and said, "I have." Eagerly they asked, "Where is he?" "In my heart is my lord, one with me," said the woman.

At the age of nine, Pa drove me to the river. The pastor & deacons awaited. I donned a white robe, transparent, self-conscious of my fresh nubs. Father Jonas reached beneath me, placed a hand over my nose & mouth. I resisted. He pushed me hard until my feet released & rose to the surface, like a corpse. I cried afterward, cold & clammy, wet hair plaited back. All the men thought I was full of the Holy Ghost.

Because the eye has a short shadow or it is hard to see over heads in the crowd? If everyone else seems smarter but you need your own secret? If mystery was never your friend? If one way could satisfy the infinite heart of the heavens? If you liked the king on his golden throne more than the villagers carrying baskets of lemons? If you wanted to be sure his guards would admit you to the party? The boy with the broken pencil scrapes his little knife against the lead turning and turning it as a point emerges from the wood again If he would believe his life is like that he would not follow his father into war

pilipinas to petatlán she whispers desert trees, thorn-ridged, trickling yellow candles; roots spilling snakes’ blood virgin of ribboned silk; virgin of gold filigree one day’s walk westward, a crucifix of fisherman’s dinghy dimensions washes ashore virgin adorned in robe of shark embryo and coconut husk she fingers mollusks, wraps herself in sea vines virgin of ocean voyage peril she will herself born virgin of mud brick ruins; virgin of sandstorm echoes she is saint of commonplaces; saint of badlands virgin of jade, camphor, porcelain; virgin of barter for ghosts penitents, earthdivers of forgotten names praying skyward virgin of scars blossomed from open veins of fire she slips across the pacific’s rivers of pearldiving children virgin of copper coins she is bloodletting words, painting unlikeness virgin of anachronism children stained with berries and rust, their skeletons bend, arrow-tipped; smoke blurs eyes’ edges virgin of mineral depletion; virgin of mercury at other altitudes she remembers to breathe; a monument scraping cloud virgin of tin deposits extracted from mountains these are not divinations; there is goldleaf about her skin virgin of naming and renaming places in between

Gift of a friend, the stone Buddha sits zazen, prayer beads clutched in his chubby fingers. Through snow, icy rain, the riot of spring flowers, he gazes forward to the city in the distance—always the same bountiful smile upon his portly face. Why don’t I share his one-minded happiness? The pear blossom, the crimson-petaled magnolia, filling me instead with a mixture of nostalgia and yearning.  He’s laughing at me, isn’t he? The seasons wheeling despite my photographs and notes, my desire to make them pause. Is that the lesson?  That stasis, this holding on, is not life?  Now I’m smiling, too—the late cherry, its soft pink blossoms already beginning to scatter; the trillium, its three-petaled white flowers exquisitely tinged with purple as they fall.

What a profound longing I feel, just this very instant, For the Garden of Eden On Montague Street Where I seldom shopped, Usually only after therapy Elbow sore at the crook From a handbasket filled To capacity. The glossy pastries! Pomegranate, persimmon, quince! Once, a bag of black beluga Lentils spilt a trail behind me While I labored to find A tea they refused to carry. It was Brooklyn. My thirties. Everyone I knew was living The same desolate luxury, Each ashamed of the same things: Innocence and privacy. I'd lug Home the paper bags, doing Bank-balance math and counting days. I'd squint into it, or close my eyes And let it slam me in the face— The known sun setting On the dawning century.

I saw the spot where our first parents dwelt; And yet it wore to me no face of change, For while amid its fields and groves, I felt As if I had not sinned, nor thought it strange; My eye seemed but a part of every sight, My ear heard music in each sound that rose; Each sense forever found a new delight, Such as the spirit’s vision only knows; Each act some new and ever-varying joy Did my Father’s love for me prepare; To dress the spot my ever fresh employ, And in the glorious whole with Him to share; No more without the flaming gate to stray, No more for sin’s dark stain the debt of death to pay.

[To be sung to the tune of The Blood of the Lamb with indicated instrument] [BASS DRUM BEATEN LOUDLY] Booth led boldly with his big bass drum— (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) The Saints smiled gravely and they said: “He’s come.” (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) Walking lepers followed, rank on rank, Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank, Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale— Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail:— Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath, Unwashed legions with the ways of Death— (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) [BANJOS] Every slum had sent its half-a-score The round world over. (Booth had groaned for more.) Every banner that the wide world flies Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes. Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang, Tranced, fanatical they shrieked and sang:— “Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?” Hallelujah! It was queer to see Bull-necked convicts with that land make free. Loons with trumpets blowed a blare, blare, blare On, on upward thro’ the golden air! (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) [BASS DRUM SLOWER AND SOFTER] Booth died blind and still by Faith he trod, Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God. Booth led boldly, and he looked the chief Eagle countenance in sharp relief, Beard a-flying, air of high command Unabated in that holy land. [SWEET FLUTE MUSIC] Jesus came from out the court-house door, Stretched his hands above the passing poor. Booth saw not, but led his queer ones there Round and round the mighty court-house square. Yet in an instant all that blear review Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new. The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled And blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world. [BASS DRUM LOUDER] Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole! Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl! Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean, Rulers of empires, and of forests green! [GRAND CHORUS OF ALL INSTRUMENTS. TAMBOURINES TO THE FOREGROUND] The hosts were sandalled, and their wings were fire! (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir. (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) O shout Salvation! It was good to see Kings and Princes by the Lamb set free. The banjos rattled and the tambourines Jing-jing-jingled in the hands of Queens. [REVERENTLY SUNG. NO INSTRUMENTS] And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer He saw his Master thro’ the flag-filled air. Christ came gently with a robe and crown For Booth the soldier, while the throng knelt down. He saw King Jesus. They were face to face, And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place. Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?