Religious poems

[Votto]

Time is a great teacher, even though it kills all its pupils.
For you see, time does not seem to have any scruples.
And the optimist believes that this is the best of both worlds, but only the pessimist knows it.
Yes, it’s a crazy world in which we live.
We clamor to take, when what we really need is to simply give.
We live in a world of lunatics,
But the one who can successfully analyze their delusion is called a philosopher.
The rest, are called a mere besmircher.
Yet one man gives me hope, as I try to emulate him.
And those that succeed in this attempt, are also the ones that quite often fail.

-hodgepodge of plagiarized quotes

 

[Taz]

Sounds gay.

 

[onefour1]

The Touch of the Master's Hand

‘Twas battered and scarred and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.

“What am I bid, good folk?” he cried.
“Who’ll start the bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar … now two … only two …
Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?

“Three dollars once, three dollars twice,
Going for three” … but no!
From the room far back a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow.

Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet,
As sweet as an angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said, “What am I bid for the old violin?”
As he held it up with the bow.

“A thousand dollars … and who’ll make it two?
Two…two thousand, and who’ll make it three?
Three thousand once and three thousand twice …
Three thousand and gone!” said he.

The people cheered, but some exclaimed
“We do not quite understand …
What changed it’s worth?” and the answer came:
” ‘Twas the touch of the master’s hand.”

And many a man with soul out of tune
And battered and scarred by sin
Is auctioned cheap by the thoughtless crowd
Just like the old violin.

But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul, and the change that is wrought
By the touch of the master’s hand.

O Master! I am the tuneless one
Lay, lay Thy hand on me,
Transform me now, put a song in my heart
Of melody, Lord, to Thee!

by Myra Brooks Welch

 

[onefour1]

'Come Follow Me' And He Went

Camp three thirty-two, the captain came through; wearing insignia bright.
'Men' he declared, 'we must be prepared - to conquer the enemy's fight.'
With a towering glare and a heart without care, he said 'men, I would like you to hear.'
'Soldier,' he said, 'get this into your head - get rid of your cowardly fear.'
So, night after night they prepared for the fight at the feet of the militant man.
'Til the soldiers were ready - their spirits were steady, and ev'ry man's though was 'I can.'
The night finally came, and name after name were called for the march of the day.
It was then that they heard the cowardly word - 'The captain is going to stay.'
Well, they left for the trek all dressed to the neck in attire designed for a fight.
But the hearts of the legion as they marched thru' the region were back in the camp in the night.
You see, as they went, they thought of the tent of a cowardly captain who stayed -
who didn't go through what he told them to do - because he was really afraid.
He easily told the men to be bold - to have courage for strength in a fight.
But he was the one, when the battle begun, who hid in the dark of the night.

Then there was the One who walked in the sun of the Galilee country of old.
A teacher was He as He walked by the sea; for His words with His actions were bold.
'Men,' He declared, 'we must be prepared to conquer the enemy's fight.'
Then He went to the hills in the power of prayer, and He prayed for the rest of the night.
It was He long ago who taught men to know, it is far more blessed to give.
Then by His example, His teaching was ample, to show men how better to live.
'Come follow me,' was His conquering plea, 'we must not give up the fight.'
'Thy Will, Oh Father, not Mine be done,' And they follow in spirit and might.
The Master Teacher wasn't a preacher who stayed in a camp in a tent.
He was the one when the battle begun, who said, 'come, follow me',
and He went.

---Andrew Reed Morrill--- January 1978

 

[onefour1]

Behold the Great Redeemer Die

1. Behold the great Redeemer die,
A broken law to satisfy.
He dies a sacrifice for sin,
He dies a sacrifice for sin,
That man may live and glory win.

2. While guilty men his pains deride,
They pierce his hands and feet and side;
And with insulting scoffs and scorns,
And with insulting scoffs and scorns,
They crown his head with plaited thorns.

3. Although in agony he hung,
No murm'ring word escaped his tongue.
His high commission to fulfill,
His high commission to fulfill,
He magnified his Father's will.

4. "Father, from me remove this cup.
Yet, if thou wilt, I'll drink it up.
I've done the work thou gavest me,
I've done the work thou gavest me;
Receive my spirit unto thee."

5. He died, and at the awful sight
The sun in shame withdrew its light!
Earth trembled, and all nature sighed,
Earth trembled, and all nature sighed
In dread response, "A God has died!"

6. He lives--he lives. We humbly now
Around these sacred symbols bow
And seek, as Saints of latter days,
And seek, as Saints of latter days,
To do his will and live his praise.

Text: Eliza R. Snow, 1804–1887
Music: George Careless, 1839–1932

 

[onefour1]

The Race

"Quit, give up, you're beaten!"
They shout at me and plead.
"There's just too much against you now.
This time you can't succeed."

And as I start to hang my head
In front of failure's face,
My downward fall is broken
by The memory of a race.

And hope refills my weakened will
As I recall that scene,
For just the thought of that short race
Rejuvenates my being.

A child's race, young boys, young men
How I remember well,
Excitement sure! But also fear.
It wasn't hard to tell.

They all lined up so full of hope
Each thought to win the race,
Or tie for 1st or if not that
At least take 2nd place.

And fathers watched from off the sides
Each cheering for his son,
And each boy hoped to show his Dad
That he would be the one.

The whistle blew and off they went
Young hearts and hopes afire
To win to be the hero there
Was each young boys desire.

And one boy in particular
Whose Dad was in the crowd
Was running near the lead and thought,
"My Dad will be so proud!"

But as he speeded down the field
Across a shallow dip,
The little boy who thought to win
Lost his step and slipped.

Trying hard to catch himself
His hands flew out to brace
And mid the laughter of the crowd
He fell flat on his face.

So down he fell and with him hope
He couldn't win it now...
Embarrassed, sad he only wished
To disappear somehow.

But as he fell his Dad stood up
And showed his anxious face
Which to the boy so clearly said:
"Get up and win the race!"

He quickly rose, no damage done,
Behind a bit, that's all
And ran with all his mind and might
To make up for his fall.

So anxious to restore himself
To catch up and to win.
His mind went faster than his legs
He slipped and fell again.

He wished that he had quit before
With only one disgrace,
"I'm hopeless as a runner now.
I shouldn't try to race."

But in the laughing crowd he searched
And found his Father's face,
That steady look that said again,
"Get up and win the race!"

So up he jumped to try again
Ten yards behind the last,
"If I'm going to gain those yards," he thought
"I've got to move real fast!"

Exerting everything he had
He regained eight or ten,
But trying so hard to catch the lead
He slipped and fell again!

Defeat! He lay there silently
A tear dropped from his eye.
"There's no sense running anymore
Three strikes; I'm out; why try!"

The will to rise had disappeared
All hope had fled away;
So far behind, so error-prone:
A loser all the way.

"I've lost so what's the use?" He thought
"I'll live with my disgrace."
But then he thought about his Dad
Who soon he'd have to face.

"Get up" an echo sounded low
"Get up and take your place,
You were not meant for failure here,
Get up and win the race!"

"With borrowed will, Get up" It said,
"You haven't lost at all,
For winning is no more than this
To rise each time you fall."

So up he rose to run once more
And with a new commit,
He resolved that win or lose
At least he wouldn't quit.

So far behind the others now
The most he'd ever been,
Still he gave it all he had
And ran as though to win.

Three times he'd fallen stumbling
Three times he rose again,
Too far behind to hope to win
He still ran to the end.

They cheered the winning runner
As he crossed the line 1st place,
Head high, and proud and happy
No falling, no disgrace.

But when the fallen youngster
Crossed the line last place,
The crowd gave him the greater cheer
For finishing the race.

And even though he came in last
With head bowed low, unproud,
You would have thought he'd won the race
To listen to the crowd.

And to his Dad he sadly said,
"I didn't do so well,"
"To me you won!" his Father said
"You rose each time you fell."

And now when things seem dark and hard
And difficult to face,
The memory of that little boy
Helps me to win my race.

For all of life is like that race
With ups and downs and all,
And all you have to do to win
Is rise each time you fall.

"Quit, Give up, You're beaten."
They still shout in my face,
But another voice within me says,
"Get up and win the race."

by Dee Groberg

 

[Votto]

Sounds gay.

Just for you.


The Atheist Creed by Steve Turner


This is the creed I have written on behalf of all us.
We believe in Marx, Freud, and Darwin
We believe everything is OK
as long as you don’t hurt anyone,
to the best of your definition of hurt,
and to the best of your knowledge.

We believe in sex before, during, and after marriage.
We believe in the therapy of sin.
We believe that adultery is fun.
We believe that sodomy is OK.
We believe that taboos are taboo.

We believe that everything is getting better
despite evidence to the contrary.
The evidence must be investigated
And you can prove anything with evidence.

We believe there’s something in
horoscopes, UFO’s and bent spoons;
Jesus was a good man
just like Buddha, Mohammed, and ourselves.
He was a good moral teacher
although we think His good morals were bad.

We believe that all religions are basically the same–
at least the one that we read was.
They all believe in love and goodness.
They only differ on matters of
creation, sin, heaven, hell, God, and salvation.

We believe that after death comes the Nothing
Because when you ask the dead what happens they say nothing.
If death is not the end, if the dead have lied,
then it’s compulsory heaven for all
excepting perhaps Hitler, Stalin, and Genghis Khan.

We believe in Masters and Johnson.
What’s selected is average.
What’s average is normal.
What’s normal is good.

We believe in total disarmament.
We believe there are direct links between warfare and bloodshed.
Americans should beat their guns into tractors
and the Islamo-terrorists would be sure to follow.

We believe that man is essentially good.
It’s only his behavior that lets him down.
This is the fault of society.
Society is the fault of conditions.
Conditions are the fault of society.

We believe that each man must find the truth that is right for him.
Reality will adapt accordingly.
The universe will readjust.
History will alter.
We believe that there is no absolute truth
excepting the truth that there is no absolute truth.

We believe in the rejection of creeds,
and the flowering of individual thought.

If chance be the Father of all flesh,
disaster is his rainbow in the sky,
and when you hear:

“State of Emergency!”
“Sniper Kills Ten!”
“Troops on Rampage!”
“Whites go Looting!”
“Bomb Blasts School!”

It is but the sound of man worshiping his maker