445 Religion poems

The terrible sons of the mighty race Shout in thunder the Lord is King, The angels whose figure the lightnings trace Flame to the world that the Lord was King, And seraphs whose stature is one with Space, Proclaim that the Lord shall be King for ever. The Lord is King, the Lord was King, the Lord shall be King for ever and ever. The rushing and undulant sons of fire Fiercely cry that the Lord is King, The rustling legions with harp and lyre Sweetly tell that the Lord was King, And numberless creatures in ceaseless choir Chant that the Lord shall be King for ever. The Lord is King, the Lord was King, the Lord shall be King for ever and ever. The bards who remember the songs of yore Sing aloud that the Lord is King, The sages enshrouded in mystic lore Find and proclaim that the Lord was King, And rulers of spans of the heavenly floor Cry that the Lord shall be King for ever. The Lord is King, the Lord was King, the Lord shall be King for ever and ever. The heirs of the Torah, Thy rich bequest, Chant in joy that the Lord is King, The lordly warriors with crown and crest Crown Thee, declaring the Lord was King, And angels in fiery garments drest Repeat that the Lord shall be King for ever. The Lord is King, the Lord was King, the Lord shall be King for ever and ever. Mellifluous orators trained of tongue Preach and teach that the Lord is King, The shimmering cherubim, radiant, young, Trumpet exultant the Lord was King, And seraphim circling have ever sung The song that the Lord shall be King for ever. The Lord is King, the Lord was King, the Lord shall be King for ever and ever. Thy people in passionate worship cry One to another the Lord is King. In awe of the marvels beneath the sky Each explains that the Lord was King. One sound from Thy pastures ascends on high: The chant that the Lord shall be King for ever. The Lord is King, the Lord was King, the Lord shall be King for ever and ever. Assemblies of holiness consecrate Thee with the cry that the Lord is King, Innumerous myriads iterate Only this—that the Lord was King, And flame-flashing angels enthroned in state Echo the Lord shall be King for ever. The Lord is King, the Lord was King, the Lord shall be King for ever and ever. The universe throbs with Thy pauseless praise, Chorus eternal, the Lord is King. Thy glory is cried from the dawn of days, Worshippers calling the Lord was King. And ever the Saints who shall witness Thy ways Shall cry that the Lord shall be King for ever. The Lord is King, the Lord was King, the Lord shall be King for ever and ever.

Beholde, o man! lyft up thyn eye and see What mortall peyne I suffre for thi trespace. With pietous voys I crye and sey to the: Beholde my woundes, behold my blody face, Beholde the rebukes that do me so manace, Beholde my enemyes that do me so despice, And how that I, to reforme the to grace, Was like a lambe offred in sacryfice. ... And geyn thi pryde behold my gret mekenesse; Geyn thyn envie behold my charité; Geyn thi leccherye behold my chast clennesse; Geyn thi covetyse behold my poverté. Atweene too thevys nayled to a tree, Rayled with reed blood, they lyst me so desguyse, Behold, O man! all this I did for the, Meke as a lambe offred in sacryfice. Behold my love, and gyf me thyn ageyn; Behold, I deyde thy raunsom for to paye. Se howe myn herte is open brode and pleyn, Thy gostly enemyes onely to affraye. An hardere batayle no man myght assaye, Of all tryumphes the grettest hye empryse. Wher-for, O man! no lenger to dismaye, I gaf for the my blood in sacryfice. Turne home ageyn, thy synne do forsake. Behold and se yf ought be left behynde, How I to mercy am redy the to take. Gyf me thyn herte and be no more unkynde; Thy love and myn, togedyr do hem bynde, And late hem never departe in any wyse. Whan thou were lost, thy sowle ageyn to fynde, My blod I offred for the in sacryfice. Emprente thes thynges in thyn inward thought, And grave hem depe in thy remembraunce; Thynke on hem, and forgete hem nowght. Al this I suffred to do the allegeaunce, And with my seyntes to yeve the suffisaunce, In the hevenly court for the I do devyse A place eternall, a place of all plesaunce; For which my blood I gaf in sacryfice. And more my mercy to putte att a preef, To every synnere that non ne shal it mysse, Remembre how I gaf mercy to the theef Which hadde so longe trespaced and doon amys; Went he not frely with me to paradise? Have this in mende, how it is my guyse All repentaunt to bryng hem to my blysse, For whom my blood I gaf in sacryfice. Tarye no lenger toward thyn herytage; Hast on thy weye and be of ryght good chere. Go eche day onward on thy pylgrymage; Thynke howe short tyme thou hast abyden here. Thy place is bygged above the sterres clere,— Noon erthly palys wrought in so statly wyse. Kome on, my frend, my brother most entere! For the I offered my blood in sacryfice!

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell, A little house, whose humble roof Is weather-proof: Under the spars of which I lie Both soft, and dry; Where Thou my chamber for to ward Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by th' poor, Who thither come and freely get Good words, or meat. Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen's small; A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipp'd, unflead; Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess too, when I dine, The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits, that be There plac'd by Thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wassail-bowls to drink, Spic'd to the brink. Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land; And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one; Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day; Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year; The while the conduits of my kine Run cream, for wine. All these, and better, Thou dost send Me, to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart, Which, fir'd with incense, I resign, As wholly Thine; But the acceptance, that must be, My Christ, by Thee.

Cloud-puffball, torn tufts, tossed pillows | flaunt forth, then chevy on an air- Built thoroughfare: heaven-roysterers, in gay-gangs | they throng; they glitter in marches. Down roughcast, down dazzling whitewash, | wherever an elm arches, Shivelights and shadowtackle ín long | lashes lace, lance, and pair. Delightfully the bright wind boisterous | ropes, wrestles, beats earth bare Of yestertempest's creases; | in pool and rut peel parches Squandering ooze to squeezed | dough, crust, dust; stanches, starches Squadroned masks and manmarks | treadmire toil there Footfretted in it. Million-fuelèd, | nature's bonfire burns on. But quench her bonniest, dearest | to her, her clearest-selvèd spark Man, how fast his firedint, | his mark on mind, is gone! Both are in an unfathomable, all is in an enormous dark Drowned. O pity and indig | nation! Manshape, that shone Sheer off, disseveral, a star, | death blots black out; nor mark Is any of him at all so stark But vastness blurs and time | beats level. Enough! the Resurrection, A heart's-clarion! Away grief's gasping, | joyless days, dejection. Across my foundering deck shone A beacon, an eternal beam. | Flesh fade, and mortal trash Fall to the residuary worm; | world's wildfire, leave but ash: In a flash, at a trumpet crash, I am all at once what Christ is, | since he was what I am, and This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, | patch, matchwood, immortal diamond, Is immortal diamond.

from locusts and wild honey On a lesser diet than that of the wretched rests a prophecy: some of us come to prepare. I stood before my god, at a foreign altar, and promised to guide you; me, with my heretic theology. I practice the ways passed to me by descendants of followers of a wild man: followers in the desert downwind of his musk, listening to him confess himself unfit to loose latchets on shoes; they believed his words holy, ignored bits of insect wing in his beard. And then, he told them of a dove that no one else could see. I have learned to retain my head while speaking truth. rite of the baptism of children Do I reject the glamor of evil? I do. You are creation — the same after water and after the Holy Spirit, only now you see the door to life and unto the Kingdom of God. Do not feel the need of any claimant to royal priesthood. Some ancient, calling himself Peter, must have been in his cups when he wrote that ish. The nerve! You were cleansed with water by power of the Word. Sign of the Cross? Phooey! There is no miracle in an instrument of death. See: Martin Luther, theses 5, 16, 28, and 95. God made no symbols; people did, et cetera. some thoughts on caterina benincasa Not much older than you when she first saw the Christ — seated in glory with few of His disciples — who gave her many gifts: a consummate marriage by way of His foreskin; the blesséd stigmata; and her head as a bag of rose petals. To “build a cell inside your mind,” a cell of self-knowledge, is good advice, my child. The Christ commanded her to open the eye of her intellect and gaze into Him. This made her secularly gifted, a power broker. Read her correspondence, yes, the letters of a lunatic diplomat but heeded, virtuous sweet amorous Word of God. ephphatha rite He sighed . All power in heaven and in earth is. Be opened. Hear and speak the truth but tell no one how. Superior to the purifications of Old Law was that water. Be opened, daughter. All power in heaven and earth is. No questions. Be opened. Hold fast to my teachings, not those of stewards but my words. Seek you first, girl, the kingdom of my love, with all your mind. All your mind. Do not forget your mind. You are mine. Be opened. Power! Suffer it to be so now: for thus it becomes us to fulfill all righteousness. All power in heaven and in earth is given me. Be opened. coda patrinalis In the land of mama there is a cathedral, the cathedral of the Holy Spirit. Inside is an icon, an image of Theotokos. Once old enough to go solo, after an age of discernment is reached, perhaps in passing by, go there. Make your way up the nave and to the right; there you will find her looking at you, babe in arm, tired and anemic as usual. Bless her with a kiss and make her holy. Bless the babe, too, if feeling generous. Use a chair if needed. It is a painting. Simple miracles were made on a lesser diet than that of the wretched.

Blood to babe to father’s laden table. Dance, said the father, show us your grace. Whose tattered cotton whose weary gristle, heads duly shriven, wrenched in complaint? Cleft so a heart works without wanting, summoned to pleasure, free to pick dates. Curve into cursive, praxis to ashes. What reveler considers the number of plates?

for a long time, the lotion stigma swirled on the man who clothes me with a broken world. I came when they called me. that cotton rubbed me the wrong way all the way inside over the course of time. way before cotton sewn into the coat of the one who clothes me. before I started clothing them with paper. before cotton sewn into their coats they curled up on flat boats all the way back up the country. the beaded strips of leather and cotton made me come to myself when he called me and wrote me on the one who clothes me. pour some water on me. make coming matter cut and twirl on me. the law of emulsion is always broke on me. somebody pour some beautiful jute on me. let her blow some horn on me. the man who clothes me in my skin is gonna write on me. your writing moves to stop on me. someday they’re gonna curve this on a pearl on me but now it’s time to go and I can’t wait to get up out from here. it’s simple to stay furled where you can’t live. for a long, long time I’ve been wearing this other planet like a scar on me.

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold, Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones; Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubl'd to the hills, and they To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all th' Italian fields where still doth sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

Who ever thinks this is impossible shall only have a look on the glass, which is similar to you — Monk of the Abbey of St. Mary and St. Nicholas at Arnstein, 
 late twelfth century, tr. by Roger Rosewell 1 In the high left light there’s a bombast figure of the iconoclast Harley — titled Chairman of the Committee for the Demolition of Monuments of Superstition and Idolatry — in operation mid 1600s. In forgiveness is lightly engraved in the grisaille glass near the base. His jig-on-coals is illumined to the foot: in the light below, skin-fierce shards of thousanded glass are oblite against an anvil road black as a telly that’s off. 2 Here the sanctity of the inextinct is vitrified. (There is in this, of course, the trick of the numinous, which apertures the mind then shutters it with a captured click.) The second window is abstracted into a green / yellow / red that’s near tessellated at points, yet at its edges approaching random generation like a screen saver projected. It is infernal. This color chart dispersal, that’s disordering or reordering. 3 Then a spurt of leading leads out of the plaster tracery, these cames a cooled ore rooting Lowhampton’s industry to a silica-limed wall — and the metal hid within a retrace of all the city’s greatness that’s gone before. Though now is lost. There is at last the moving off from the abstract; a tilting to the concrete: it seems, right here, that a hundred buildings are storied in stone-thrown perspective. A city reinvented. 4 In four: a clear-paned gemmail connecting like-to-like, with no change of  tint or shape, no supporting leadlight. It’s as if it were a house window. Or something from an office block. It does not create or stain but gives an outside falling past Sainsbury’s and the Sander Tower looming, then the ring road communioned traffic forming. An open room pupiled towards rain in its rain-tone, the study of an unaltared sun.

From the region of zephyrs, the Emerald isle, The land of thy birth, in my freshness I come, To waken this long-cherished morn with a smile, And breathe o’er thy spirit the whispers of home. O welcome the stranger from Erin’s green sod; I sprang where the bones of thy fathers repose, I grew where thy free step in infancy trod, Ere the world threw around thee its wiles and its woes. But sprightlier themes Enliven the dreams, My dew-dropping leaflets unfold to impart: To loftiest emotion Of patriot devotion, I wake the full chord of an Irishman’s heart. The rose is expanding her petals of pride, And points to the laurels o’erarching her tree; And the hardy Bur-thistle stands rooted beside, And sternly demands;—Who dare meddle wi’ me? And bright are the garlands they jointly display, In death-fields of victory gallantly got; But let the fair sisters their trophies array, And show us the wreath where the shamrock is not! By sea and by land, With bullet and brand, My sons have directed the stormbolt of war; The banners ye boast, Ne’er waved o’er our host, Unfanned by the accents of Erin-go-bragh! Erin mavourneen! dark is thy night; Deep thy forebodings and gloomy thy fears; And O, there are bosoms with savage delight Who laugh at thy plainings and scoff at thy tears! But, Erin mavourneen, bright are the names Who twine with the heart-vein thy fate in their breast; And scorned be the lot of the dastard, who shames To plant, as a trophy, this leaf on his crest! Thrice trebled disgrace His honours deface, Who shrinks from proclaiming the isle of his birth! Though lowly its stem, This emerald gem Mates with the proudest that shadow the earth! Sandhurst, March 17, 1827