445 Religion poems

The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet, 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around The grain lie rotting on the ground. Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door, For he had a plentiful last-year's store, And all the neighbourhood could tell His granaries were furnish'd well. At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay; He bade them to his great Barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there. Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flock'd from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old. Then when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; And while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all. "I'faith 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he, "And the country is greatly obliged to me, For ridding it in these times forlorn Of Rats that only consume the corn." So then to his palace returned he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again. In the morning as he enter'd the hall Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame. As he look'd there came a man from his farm— He had a countenance white with alarm; "My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn, And the Rats had eaten all your corn." Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be, "Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he, "Ten thousand Rats are coming this way,... The Lord forgive you for yesterday!" "I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he, "'Tis the safest place in Germany; The walls are high and the shores are steep, And the stream is strong and the water deep." Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away, And he crost the Rhine without delay, And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there. He laid him down and closed his eyes;... But soon a scream made him arise, He started and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow from whence the screaming came. He listen'd and look'd;... it was only the Cat; And the Bishop he grew more fearful for that, For she sat screaming, mad with fear At the Army of Rats that were drawing near. For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climb'd the shores so steep, And up the Tower their way is bent, To do the work for which they were sent. They are not to be told by the dozen or score, By thousands they come, and by myriads and more, Such numbers had never been heard of before, Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore. Down on his knees the Bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder drawing near The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. And in at the windows and in at the door, And through the walls helter-skelter they pour, And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below, And all at once to the Bishop they go. They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the Bishop's bones: They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him!

It must be troubling for the god who loves you To ponder how much happier you’d be today Had you been able to glimpse your many futures. It must be painful for him to watch you on Friday evenings Driving home from the office, content with your week— Three fine houses sold to deserving families— Knowing as he does exactly what would have happened Had you gone to your second choice for college, Knowing the roommate you’d have been allotted Whose ardent opinions on painting and music Would have kindled in you a lifelong passion. A life thirty points above the life you’re living On any scale of satisfaction. And every point A thorn in the side of the god who loves you. You don’t want that, a large-souled man like you Who tries to withhold from your wife the day’s disappointments So she can save her empathy for the children. And would you want this god to compare your wife With the woman you were destined to meet on the other campus? It hurts you to think of him ranking the conversation You’d have enjoyed over there higher in insight Than the conversation you’re used to. And think how this loving god would feel Knowing that the man next in line for your wife Would have pleased her more than you ever will Even on your best days, when you really try. Can you sleep at night believing a god like that Is pacing his cloudy bedroom, harassed by alternatives You’re spared by ignorance? The difference between what is And what could have been will remain alive for him Even after you cease existing, after you catch a chill Running out in the snow for the morning paper, Losing eleven years that the god who loves you Will feel compelled to imagine scene by scene Unless you come to the rescue by imagining him No wiser than you are, no god at all, only a friend No closer than the actual friend you made at college, The one you haven’t written in months. Sit down tonight And write him about the life you can talk about With a claim to authority, the life you’ve witnessed, Which for all you know is the life you’ve chosen.

The Goddess who created this passing world Said Let there be lightbulbs & liquefaction Life spilled out onto the street, colors whirled Cars & the variously shod feet were born And the past & future & I born too Light as airmail paper away she flew To Annapurna or Mt. McKinley Or both but instantly Clarified, composed, forever was I Meant by her to recognize a painting As beautiful or a movie stunning And to adore the finitude of words And understand as surfaces my dreams Know the eye the organ of affection And depths to be inflections Of her voice & wrist & smile

Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this, The intelligence that moves, devotion is, And as the other Spheares, by being growne Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne, And being by others hurried every day, Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey: Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit For their first mover, and are whirld by it. Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the West This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East. There I should see a Sunne, by rising set, And by that setting endlesse day beget; But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall, Sinne had eternally benighted all. Yet dare I'almost be glad, I do not see That spectacle of too much weight for mee. Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye; What a death were it then to see God dye? It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke, It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke. Could I behold those hands which span the Poles, And tune all spheares at once peirc'd with those holes? Could I behold that endlesse height which is Zenith to us, and our Antipodes, Humbled below us? or that blood which is The seat of all our Soules, if not of his, Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne By God, for his apparell, rag'd, and torne? If on these things I durst not looke, durst I Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye, Who was Gods partner here, and furnish'd thus Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom'd us? Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye, They'are present yet unto my memory, For that looks towards them; and thou look'st towards mee, O Saviour, as thou hang'st upon the tree; I turne my backe to thee, but to receive Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave. O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee, Burne off my rusts, and my deformity, Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace, That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face.

The Good God and the Evil God met on the mountain top. The Good God said, “Good day to you, brother.” The Evil God did not answer. And the Good God said, “You are in a bad humour today.” “Yes,” said the Evil God, “for of late I have been often mistaken for you, called by your name, and treated as if I were you, and it ill-pleases me.” And the Good God said, “But I too have been mistaken for you and called by your name.” The Evil God walked away cursing the stupidity of man.

Good King Wenceslas look’d out, On the Feast of Stephen; When the snow lay round about, Deep, and crisp, and even: Brightly shone the moon that night, Though the frost was cruel, When a poor man came in sight, Gath’ring winter fuel. “Hither page and stand by me, If thou know’st it, telling, Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?” “Sire, he lives a good league hence. Underneath the mountain; Right against the forest fence, By Saint Agnes’ fountain.” “Bring me flesh,and bring me wine, Bring me pine-logs hither: Thouand I will see him dine, When we bear them thither.” Page and monarch forth they went, Forth they went together; Through the rudewind’s wild lament, And the bitter weather. “Sire, the night is darker now, And the wind blows stronger; Fails my heart, I know now how, I can go no longer.” “Mark my footsteps, good my page; Tread thou in them boldly; Thou shalt find the winter’s rage Freeze thy blood less coldly.” In his master’s steps he trod, Where the snow lay dinted; Heat was in the very sod Which the Saint had printed. Therefore, Christian men, be sure, Wealth or rank possessing, Ye who now will bless the poor, Shall yourselves find blessing.

for John Holohan Jesus wound up with his body nailed to a tree— a torment he practically begged for, or at least did nothing to stop. Pilate watched the crowd go thumbs down and weary, signed the order. So centurions laid Jesus flat on a long beam, arms run along the crosspiece. In each palm a long spike was centered, a stone chosen to drive it. (Skin tears; the bones start to split.) Once the cross got propped up, the body hung heavy, a carcass— in carne, the Latin poets say, in meat. (—The breastbone a ship’s prow . . .) At the end the man cried out as men cry. (Tears that fill the eyes grow dark drop and by drop: One cries out.) On the third day, the stone rolled back, to reveal no corpse. History is rife with such hoaxes. (Look at Herodotus.) As to whether he multiplied loaves and fishes, that’s common enough. Poke seed-corn in a hole and see if more corn doesn’t grow. Two fish in a pond make more fishes. The altar of reason supports such extravagance. (I don’t even know how electricity works, but put trust in light switches.) And the prospect of love cheers me up, as gospel. That some creator might strap on an animal mask to travel our path between birth and ignominious death—now that makes me less lonely. And the rising up at the end into glory—the white circle of bread on the meat of each tongue that God might enter us. For 2000-near years my tribe has lined up at various altars, so dumbly I open this mouth for bread and song.

Oh, de wars and de scrapes And de sprees am done—sprees am done De foe am beat. De Turks am drowned—Turks am drowned. All safe and sounds To our wives we come . . . — Otello , by T. D. Rice Dreams may come from the enemy— from the business of the past day— from a disordered body— from moral evil— from God, through the medium of the Angels, and departed saints, as forewarnings to stir up and prepare the mind for the scenes ahead. I fell into a slumber; and in it I dreamed that two devils entered the room, each with a chain in his hand; they laid hold on me, the one at my head, the other at my feet, and bound me fast, and breaking out the window, carried me a distance from the house and laid me on a spot of ice, and while the weaker devil flew off in flames of fire, the stronger one set out to carry me down to hell. I put my hands together and said, Lord I submit to go and preach thy gospel; only grant my peaceful hours to return, and open the door. Here I received the solemn news of the death of our only child. The vibration of the earth shook down the trees, thousands of willows were swept off like a pipe stem, about waist high, and the swamps became high ground, and high land became low ground, and two islands in the river were so shaken, washed away and sunk, as not to be found. From this I infer some trouble is at hand, But the film was already starting— The sounds came in waves, higher and higher, at the top of it someone screaming— Now what you call your great disappointment, I call the Great Awakeneing— When I heard (though not always in these old forgotten words I remember) the first of three visions— Yet if you tell me they are only my dear dead returning, I would not disbelieve you. 2. It is an odd sort of fortune to have lived an adventurous life. In my disgust, I left school and devoted all my blighted spirit to minstrelsy; I had no natural aptness for the banjo, but for dancing— such a remarkable gift few ever saw. The first part of our performances we gave with white faces; and by practicing to knock spin and toss the tambourine back in my room, I was now the “Scotch Girl” in plaid petticoats. Besides my Highland Fling, I took the principal lady parts in the negro ballets; for a lad, I danced “Lucy Long” so admirably a planter in one of the Southern States insisted on purchasing me, until the door-tender kicked that planter down the stairs. Old Ephraim was one of the most comical specimens of the negro species, the blackest face, largest mouth, whitest teeth; What could he do? Why, he could fetch water, black our boots, take care of our baggage. My father said of Howie Gray who worked beside him every day at the South Station PO and put both his sons through college, “He’s not an uppity Negro.” My father meant that as a compliment. There were tears in his eyes when Howie Gray died. 3. Every man his own radio— It hath been thought that the dying speeches of such as have been executed among us might be of singular use to correct the crimes wherein too many do live Billington, disregarding the commotion he was causing and the certainty of apprehension, reloaded and stalked his enemy. She concealed her crime until the time of her delivery, and then being delivered alone by her self in a dark room, she murdered the harmless and helpless infant. Foster didn’t say a word. He just picked up a steal boomer and smashed Pikin over the head with it. I went forth to be delivered in the field, and dropping my child by the side of a little pond (whether alive or stillborn I cannot tell), I covered it over with dirt and snow and speedily returned home. He struck the helpless Kling again and again Mr. Spooner strove to speak, when down, Brooks took him by the throat and partly strangled him. Ross and Buchanan came out. Ross took Mr. Spooner’s watch and gave it to Buchanan. Brooks and Ross took him up and put him in the well head first. Before they carried him away, I, Buchanan, pulled off his shoes. Eight streaks of splattered blood. Eight murderous strokes of an axe or knife. Was found, by a person with a dog, crossing the fields, in a piece of woods a little distance from Brandywine to the Turk’s Head, two dead infants. Now what you call your Great Awakening, I call Much Ado, I call The Big Sleep— But when did I become someone on whom everything is lost? Like the dream I lifted from my father like a Band-Aid— Where I checked hats, that instantly, embarrassingly disappeared— My earnest offers to return the $1.00 gratuity raining down on dead ears— I thought I was boyish. It availed me nothing.

Greenland’s icy mountains are fascinating and grand, And wondrously created by the Almighty’s command; And the works of the Almighty there’s few can understand: Who knows but it might be a part of Fairyland? Because there are churches of ice, and houses glittering like glass, And for scenic grandeur there’s nothing can it surpass, Besides there’s monuments and spires, also ruins, Which serve for a safe retreat from the wild bruins. And there’s icy crags and precipices, also beautiful waterfalls, And as the stranger gazes thereon, his heart it appals With a mixture of wonder, fear, and delight, Till at last he exclaims, Oh! what a wonderful sight! The icy mountains they’re higher than a brig’s topmast, And the stranger in amazement stands aghast As he beholds the water flowing off the melted ice Adown the mountain sides, that he cries out, Oh! how nice! Such sights as these are truly magnificent to be seen, Only that the mountain tops are white instead of green, And rents and caverns in them, the same as on a rugged mountain side, And suitable places, in my opinion, for mermaids to reside. Sometimes these icy mountains suddenly topple o’er With a wild and rumbling hollow-starting roar; And new peaks and cliffs rise up out of the sea, While great cataracts of uplifted brine pour down furiously. And those that can witness such an awful sight Can only gaze thereon in solemn silence and delight, And the most Godfearless man that hath this region trod Would be forced to recognise the power and majesty of God. Oh! how awful and grand it must be on a sunshiny day To see one of these icy mountains in pieces give way! While, crack after crack, it falls with a mighty crash Flat upon the sea with a fearful splash. And in the breaking up of these mountains they roar like thunder, Which causes the stranger no doubt to wonder; Also the Esquimaux of Greenland betimes will stand And gaze on the wondrous work of the Almighty so grand. When these icy mountains are falling, the report is like big guns, And the glittering brilliancy of them causes mock-suns, And around them there’s connected a beautiful ring of light, And as the stranger looks thereon, it fills his heart with delight. Oh! think on the danger of seafaring men If any of these mighty mountains where falling on them; Alas! they would be killed ere the hand of man could them save And, poor creatures, very likely find a watery grave! ’Tis most beautiful to see and hear the whales whistling and blowing, And the sailors in their small boats quickly after them rowing, While the whales keep lashing the water all their might With their mighty tails, left and right. In winter there’s no sunlight there night or day, Which, no doubt, will cause the time to pass tediously away, And cause the Esquimaux to long for the light of day, So as they will get basking themselves in the sun’s bright array. In summer there is perpetual sunlight, Which fill the Esquimaux’s hearts with delight; And is seen every day and night in the blue sky, Which makes the scenery appear most beautiful to the eye. During summer and winter there the land is covered with snow, Which sometimes must fill the Esquimaux’ hearts with woe As they traverse fields of ice, ten or fifteen feet thick, And with cold, no doubt, their hearts will be touched to the quick. And let those that read or hear this feel thankful to God That the icy fields of Greenland they have never trod; Especially while seated around the fireside on a cold winter night, Let them think of the cold and hardships Greenland sailors have to fight.

Hark, how all the welkin rings, “Glory to the King of kings; Peace on earth, and mercy mild, God and sinners reconcil’d!” Joyful, all ye nations, rise, Join the triumph of the skies; Universal nature say, “Christ the Lord is born to-day!” Christ, by highest Heaven ador’d, Christ, the everlasting Lord: Late in time behold him come, Offspring of a virgin’s womb! Veil’d in flesh, the Godhead see, Hail th’ incarnate Deity! Pleas’d as man with men to appear, Jesus, our Immanuel here! Hail, the heavenly Prince of Peace, Hail, the Sun of Righteousness! Light and life to all he brings, Risen with healing in his wings. Mild he lays his glory by, Born that man no more may die; Born to raise the sons of earth; Born to give them second birth. Come, desire of nations, come, Fix in us thy humble home; Rise, the woman’s conquering seed, Bruise in us the serpent’s head. Now display thy saving power, Ruin’d nature now restore; Now in mystic union join Thine to ours, and ours to thine. Adam’s likeness, Lord, efface, Stamp thy image in its place. Second Adam from above, Reinstate us in thy love. Let us thee, though lost, regain, Thee, the life, the inner man: O, to all thyself impart, Form’d in each believing heart.