Church poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of church poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on church are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
They arrived through the morning post The father, son, and the holy ghost They raised their flag. I raised a toast To all the wretched sinking souls And so we built our little church A little store to peddle hope
It’s winter now. A sea of flaking whites with Few Mahonias and Jacquelines blooming bright Just the way you’d loved them. Of flowers, now I’d rather you be a wreath on my bosom Than a lonely rose on the lapel.
Church bells ring The choir sings Songs of praise Ancient of days Stained glass colors Arched cross hovers His mighty power A strong high tower Wooden pews Lilly flowers Sunshine and April showers A merciful God The children applaud Before
In my quest for Eternal Bliss I came to a Golden Arch, across its gate was written “No Thoroughfare” “Trespassers will be prosecuted.” I smiled I am love I enter everywhere!! in I went into a grassy land wet with
I feel the tiredness of my years, those quiet times when breath appears in melting mosaic imagery, upon the mirrors of a sea that only calls so many names, through pious sunlit tortured flames that scrape themselves away from light,
There was once a minister who moved to San Francisco to pastor a little church. The name of that little church was Emmanuel which means “God with us”. There was an atmosphere about that little church that said to strangers
Walking in the bush, late in the afternoon: Spring winding trails Among Plantae et Animalia. An independent world —Sort of realm of alien species Welcomes your senses with a storm of small flies (genus Drosophila) Which playfully floods the air,
“Appa, your kinda song” called out Aadi My kind? Listened, liked it instantly and That has set the ball rolling on a peep into Mumbai, may be many things to many a man Gun totting gangsters, trigger happy cops, Starlit
The door closes behind me with a snap. My footsteps echo strangely on the street’s pavement. I feel the urge to go back. A pale sun is struggling hard to escape the cloud’s clutches. The smell of incense covers the
Children laughing when at play, bright sun rising to greet the day Sweet cream added in my morning coffee, horses munching hay A rusty nut that just breaks free, an ancient majestic noble tree Wind at my back true point
‘Twas on the eve of St Agnes’ Day, When young virgin’s minds fly astray; Stacey lay her body bare To January’s freezing air. She cast her liquid ebon eyes, Up to the boundless starry skies, Hoping to find in that
1916. Rossetti and Taberlet. Those are the first two names we read on the memorial, The captured soldier breaking for freedom, stood silently upon the delicately quiet letters that form lost names. There for decades, in sleepy Morzine. The thick
Clips, Clamps, Berets, and Bows. School, church, playdates, she goes. But that’s just the beginning of her poor hairs woes. Down again? Up again. Knots again? Brush again. Food again? Comb again. Gum again? Glue again? Brush, and comb again.
Eveline sits lonely by her window, Gazing out to see the day, Golden sunshine greets her woe, She wishes she didn’t have to stay, A gentle tear lands along her breast, Cascading from her emerald eyes, Like a bird departing
The man who mistook the money he made for time with his family the intimate touch of the edge of his desk as it dug into his butterfat belly when he slept every night embrace by his tooled leather belt
At the border of a church marked by shame and seclusion Stood a man on the throat of reason Glorious treason conducted By the song birds of compassion Held the man in their mirth of delusion The cold pulpit floor
They were boys of Carson’s army, sons of Ulster, loyal and true, marching off to France for glory, fighting for the red, white and blue. Description of T Atkinson on enlistment height 5’7”, weight 122 lbs, chest when fully expanded
Captured and chained in their own land Traded and enslaved by the hand of man Cargoes of human commodities Sold and put on ships sailing to worlds unknown Greeted by greed to their new homeland Gathered and herded to work
Cute a little, a nice friend she is! Always a little chittery, a chattery she is! Gets a little bittery, a battery she is! Anyways a little tingly, a tangly her life is! So a little blingly, a bangly her
Everyday I wake up not knowing where I am For each day when I hesitantly open that dreaded door confronting me dreaming I’d never woken up I enter an unfamiliar world different from the yesterdays and the tomorrows if I
The Seventh Day church built on the bend I curse at the perfection Alongside these potholes dug deep A cemetery for hope Down the road the Pentecostal one wore a hat It seems the years had stripped away all that
She stands and waits in her wedding gown Like white clouds Floating on her, she walks around she looks out of her window pane Wishing he will come to see her again The broken promise they can mend The fear
It was indeed orchestrated by providence, for two hypnotized by love on social media. It was indeed the innovation of the times that united two once unbeknownst to each other. Separated by tongue, culture, values and distance. A French kiss
The day we first met Was one I cant forget There is something in you Because my heart beats fast for you When you stared at me I thought it was valentine’s day Because your beautiful smile banished my sadness
An old boar squirrel has made a home in the tall skinny house across the street. he must think himself lucky to have the space. I watch him build his treasury on the jade kitchen linoleum dark nuts arranged like
History remembers King Henry VIII, his mass gallows lovingly called ‘Tyburn Trees’, and victims protesting King’s control on church, but not the grains of sand flown in air by wind. ‘Tyburn Trees’ are nothing new to power dealers, ‘Collesseum’ was
Let’s sit around together here on the sleepy grass with our lovely families and well crafted Halloween Lanterns, It’s warm and peaceful The wind is slowly blowing, making some funny shadows on our faces Let’s hear the sounds of fire
I will sit or lay. Not in sadness or tears, you don’t understand. I’m in-between everything. That time I starred at that horse. I wanted to be it so much. Its pensive eyes knew I was not worth a glance.