445 Religion poems

The Holy Ghost was browsing in his or her library one day in the future, unaccountably bored, oddly querulous, vaguely wanting something that would be quietly unfamiliar. "It doesn't have to be great," said the Holy Ghost with the faintest note of exasperation in his or her voice, "just so long as it has its own special character." Gliding along the billion shelves, incredibly graceful despite his or her mood. Then the deft and lovely hand of the Holy Ghost lit on a slim volume of poetry— it was your book. It was your book. The first poem caused the Holy Ghost to frown; ah, but not with disdain, rather with curiosity! The second poem brought a brightening of divine eyes. And the page was turned as if by a pensive breeze. Maybe it happened after your death, but so what? It happened. "I'm taking this back to my perfect desk," said the HG. "This is really something."

Dear God, Our Heavenly Father, Gracious Lord, Mother Love and Maker, Light Divine, Atomic Fingertip, Cosmic Design, First Letter of the Alphabet, Last Word, Mutual Satisfaction, Cash Award, Auditor Who Approves Our Bottom Line, Examiner Who Says That We Are Fine, Oasis That All Sands Are Running Toward. I can say almost anything about you, O Big Idea, and with each epithet, Create new reasons to believe or doubt you, Black Hole, White Hole, Presidential Jet. But what’s the anything I must leave out? You Solve nothing but the problems that I set.

Half asleep in prayer I said the right thing And felt a sudden pleasure come into The room or my own body. In the dark, Charged with a change of atmosphere, at first I couldn’t tell my body from the room. And I was wide awake, full of this feeling, Alert as though I’d heard a doorknob twist, A drawer pulled, and instead of terror knew The intrusion of an overwhelming joy. I had said thanks and this was the response. But how I said it or what I said it for I still cannot recall and I have tried All sorts of ways all hours of the night. Once was enough to be dissatisfied.

There will be no deafening noise. No hornblow of thunder. The small plants of the earth will not tremble on the hillside as grace is prepared. The sky will neither drown us in its plenty, nor the ground crack and consume feet in its hunger. No, bodies will not, in their last rags of flesh, creep from under the earth, and with breath once torn from them, choke and expel the old mud of the world. Adam and Eve, incredulous, will not embrace again in their poverty, not knowing whether to shield themselves, or to emerge shameless from the past's shadow, astonished to again greet Terra Firma . The book of the world, encrusted with deep-sea pearls and the blood of the lamb, will not open up its pages in which all deeds have been inscribed. And the totality of history will not roll back together, all events fusing, once and for all, into the great blazing sphere of time. None will sit on the right hand. There will be no right hand. And the figure of sorrow and grace, with his staff upright, its purple pennant caught in that final wind, will not be there to greet us, with the mercy of justice in his eyes. No, never judgment. Just the abyss into which all acts are thrown down, and the terrible white silence in which judgment either endures or burns.

XVI. Upon Apparel. God gave us Cloaths to hide our Nakedness , And we by them , do it expose to View. Our Pride, and unclean Minds, to an excess , By our Apparel we to others shew.

Come, Holy Spirit, bending or not bending the grasses, appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame, at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards or when snow covers crippled firs in the Sierra Nevada. I am only a man: I need visible signs. I tire easily, building the stairway of abstraction. Many a time I asked, you know it well, that the statue in church lifts its hand, only once, just once, for me. But I understand that signs must be human, therefore call one man, anywhere on earth, not me—after all I have some decency— and allow me, when I look at him, to marvel at you. Berkely, 1961

Creator Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come, visit ev'ry pious mind; Come, pour thy joys on human kind; From sin, and sorrow set us free; And make thy temples worthy Thee. O, Source of uncreated Light, The Father's promis'd Paraclete! Thrice Holy Fount, thrice Holy Fire, Our hearts with heav'nly love inspire; Come, and thy Sacred Unction bring To sanctify us, while we sing! Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy sev'n-fold energy! Thou strength of his Almighty Hand, Whose pow'r does heav'n and earth command: Proceeding Spirit, our Defence, Who do'st the gift of tongues dispence, And crown'st thy gift with eloquence! Refine and purge our earthly parts; But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts! Our frailties help, our vice control; Submit the senses to the soul; And when rebellious they are grown, Then, lay thy hand, and hold 'em down. Chase from our minds th' Infernal Foe; And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; And, lest our feet should step astray, Protect, and guide us in the way. Make us Eternal Truths receive, And practise, all that we believe: Give us thy self, that we may see The Father and the Son, by thee. Immortal honour, endless fame, Attend th' Almighty Father's name: The Saviour Son be glorified, Who for lost Man's redemption died: And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to thee.

Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost With the least shade of thought to sin allied. Woman! above all women glorified, Our tainted nature's solitary boast; Purer than foam on central ocean tost; Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn With fancied roses, than the unblemished moon Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast; Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend, As to a visible Power, in which did blend All that was mixed and reconciled in thee Of mother's love with maiden purity, Of high with low, celestial with terrene!

Carpaccio, San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, Venice You are amazed to find trees in Venice — To turn a corner into a campo Where two or three rustling acacias Spread their halo of leaves Over two or three red-slatted benches. It’s as if you had slipped through a curtained doorway Into a hall full of dull gold scenes By Carpaccio — a miraculous light — Though the rio’s still shrouded in a mist Compounded of water vapour and smog So it’s not that the sun has come out, it’s Something to do with the leaves and painting In the realm of echoes where footsteps Reverberate endlessly between two walls And dawn is the chink of a stonemason At his reparations, disembodied Voices irresistible as bird calls. Yes, you’re amazed to find trees in Venice Shedding their gold leaf onto the pavement Outside a secondhand bookstore. It’s like Carpaccio’s little white dog Wagging his tail at the feet of Saint Augustine Who is staring out of the window Looking for the voice of Saint Jerome.

yesterday I was at the Wailing Wall pretending to be a man, pretending to be a Jew it was research for my job still I tried to feel God, touched the Wall said a prayer for my sick mother the women go to one side the men to the other the rest of us float and bobble like space trash around the corner is the empty co-ed wall no one prays before the genderless stones they smell the concession the gay rabbi said Jerusalem has been conquered forty-four times I walk with the men, stolen yarmulke in my hand past the dancing bar mitzvah boys on the other side of the fence their mothers throw hard candies at them