445 Religion poems

Before my first communion, I clung to doubt as Satan spider-like stalked the orb of dark surrounding Eden for a wormhole into paradise. God had formed me from gel in my mother’s womb, injected by my dad’s smart shoot. They swapped sighs until I came, smaller than a bite of burger. Quietly, I grew till my lungs were done then the Lord sailed a soul like a lit arrow to inhabit me. Maybe that piercing made me howl at birth, or the masked creatures whose scalpel cut a lightning bolt to free me. I was hoisted by the heels and swatted, fed and hauled around. Time-lapse photos show my fingers grow past crayon outlines, my feet come to fill spike heels. Eventually, I lurched out to kiss the wrong mouths, get stewed, and sulk around. Christ always stood to one side with a glass of water. I swatted the sap away. When my thirst got great enough to ask, a clear stream welled up inside, some jade wave buoyed me forward, and I found myself upright in the instant, with a garden inside my own ribs aflourish. There, the arbor leafs. The vines push out plump grapes. You are loved, someone said. Take that and eat it.

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; Far off the noises of the world retreat; The loud vociferations of the street Become an undistinguishable roar. So, as I enter here from day to day, And leave my burden at this minster gate, Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, The tumult of the time disconsolate To inarticulate murmurs dies away, While the eternal ages watch and wait. II How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers! This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers! But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves, And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers! Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain, What exultations trampling on despair, What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong, What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, Uprose this poem of the earth and air, This mediæval miracle of song! I enter, and I see thee in the gloom Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine! And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine. The air is filled with some unknown perfume; The congregation of the dead make room For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine; Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb. From the confessionals I hear arise Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, And lamentations from the crypts below; And then a voice celestial that begins With the pathetic words, "Although your sins As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow." With snow-white veil and garments as of flame, She stands before thee, who so long ago Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe From which thy song and all its splendors came; And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name, The ice about thy heart melts as the snow On mountain heights, and in swift overflow Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame. Thou makest full confession; and a gleam, As of the dawn on some dark forest cast, Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase; Lethe and Eunoë — the remembered dream And the forgotten sorrow — bring at last That perfect pardon which is perfect peace. I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze With forms of Saints and holy men who died, Here martyred and hereafter glorified; And the great Rose upon its leaves displays Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays, With splendor upon splendor multiplied; And Beatrice again at Dante's side No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise. And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love And benedictions of the Holy Ghost; And the melodious bells among the spires O'er all the house-tops and through heaven above Proclaim the elevation of the Host! O star of morning and of liberty! O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines Above the darkness of the Apennines, Forerunner of the day that is to be! The voices of the city and the sea, The voices of the mountains and the pines, Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines Are footpaths for the thought of Italy! Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights, Through all the nations, and a sound is heard, As of a mighty wind, and men devout, Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes, In their own language hear thy wondrous word, And many are amazed and many doubt.

Let it no longer be a forlorn hope To wash an Ethiope; He’s wash’d, his gloomy skin a peaceful shade, For his white soul is made; And now, I doubt not, the Eternal Dove A black-fac’d house will love.

See here an easy feast that knows no wound, That under hunger’s teeth will needs be sound; A subtle harvest of unbounded bread, What would ye more? Here food itself is fed.

Thou water turn’st to wine, fair friend of life, Thy foe, to cross the sweet arts of thy reign, Distils from thence the tears of wrath and strife, And so turns wine to water back again.

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love All pray in their distress; And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is God, our father dear, And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is Man, his child and care. For Mercy has a human heart, Pity a human face, And Love, the human form divine, And Peace, the human dress. Then every man, of every clime, That prays in his distress, Prays to the human form divine, Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. And all must love the human form, In heathen, Turk, or Jew; Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell There God is dwelling too.

Done is a battle on the dragon black, Our champion Christ confoundit has his force; The yetis of hell are broken with a crack, The sign triumphal raisit is of the cross, The devillis trymmillis with hiddous voce, The saulis are borrowit and to the bliss can go, Christ with his bloud our ransonis dois indoce: Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro. Dungan is the deidly dragon Lucifer, The cruewall serpent with the mortal stang; The auld kene tiger, with his teith on char, Whilk in a wait has lyen for us so lang, Thinking to grip us in his clawis strang; The merciful Lord wald nocht that it were so, He made him for to failye of that fang. Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro. He for our saik that sufferit to be slane, And lyk a lamb in sacrifice was dicht, Is lyk a lion risen up agane, And as a gyane raxit him on hicht; Sprungen is Aurora radious and bricht, On loft is gone the glorious Apollo, The blissful day departit fro the nicht: Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro. The grit victour again is rissen on hicht, That for our querrell to the deth was woundit; The sun that wox all pale now shynis bricht, And, derkness clearit, our faith is now refoundit; The knell of mercy fra the heaven is soundit, The Christin are deliverit of their wo, The Jowis and their errour are confoundit: Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro. The fo is chasit, the battle is done ceis, The presone broken, the jevellouris fleit and flemit; The weir is gon, confermit is the peis, The fetteris lowsit and the dungeon temit, The ransoun made, the prisoneris redeemit; The field is won, owrecomen is the fo, Dispuilit of the treasure that he yemit: Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

How strange my lack of faith must seem to you. I see the way your god provides a cradle for your grief; how lovely to be certain that the ancient story's true. You sang the hymns as if each word were new— At last , you sang, at last in Your / Eternal arms I'll find relief (how strange my lack of faith must seem to you)— while I kept drifting, lost in the refrains and in the blue fragility the tinted glass provided us to bow beneath (how lovely to be certain that the ancient story's true). Beneath that moderated sky we rose and sang and cried on cue; familiar words were read to keep our sorrow brief (how sad my lack of faith must seem to you); the book upon the altar and the hymnals in each pew held pages edged in fine gold leaf— how lovely seeing that the ancient story's true— and I was wondering just what it cost to see this vaulting through: the ceilings, windows, ornament; the engineering of belief . . . But let my lack of faith seem strange to you! You're lovely certain that the ancient story's true.

Each day as dawn approaches, the King sits in majesty and blesses the holy creatures: To you, my creatures, I speak, before you I declare— Creatures who bear the throne of my glory with all your heart, and willingly with your soul— Blessed is the hour of your creation, and exalted is the constellation beneath which I gave you form. May the light of that morning continue to shine when you came into my mind— for you are a vessel of my desire prepared and perfected on that day. Be silent, creatures of my making, so I might hear my children pray.

is my season of defeat. Though all is green and death is done, I feel alone. As if the stone rolled off from the head of the tomb is lodged in the doorframe of my room, and everyone I’ve ever loved lives happily just past my able reach. And each time Jesus rises I’m reminded of this marble fact: they are not coming back.