Poems About God

And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced the tidings good to hear,The poor folks flocked from far and near;The great barn was full as it could holdOf women and children, and young and old.

Then, when he saw it could hold no more,Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;And whilst for mercy on Christ they call,He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all.

"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he;"And the country is greatly obliged to meFor ridding it, in these times forlorn,Of rats that only consume the corn."

So then to his palace returned he,And he sate down to supper merrily,And he slept that night like an innocent man;But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning, as he entered the hall,Where his picture hung against the wall,A sweat like death all over him came,For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he looked, there came a man from his farm--He had a countenance white with alarm:"My lord, I opened your granaries this morn,And the rats had eaten all your corn."

Another came running presently,And he was pale as pale could be."Fly! my lord bishop, fly!" quoth he,"Ten thousand rats are coming this way,--The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"

"I'll go to my tower in the Rhine," replied he;"'T is the safest place in Germany,--The walls are high, and the shores are steep,And the tide is strong, and the water deep."

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away;And he crossed the Rhine without delay,And reached his tower, and barred with careAll the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes,But soon a scream made him arise;He started, and saw two eyes of flameOn his pillow, from whence the screaming came.

He listened and looked,--it was only the cat;But the bishop he grew more fearful for that,For she sate screaming, mad with fear,At the army of rats that were drawing near.

For they have swum over the river so deep,And they have climbed the shores so steep,And now by thousands up they crawlTo the holes and the windows in the wall.

Down on his knees the bishop fell,And faster and faster his beads did he tell,As louder and louder, drawing near,The saw of their teeth without he could hear.

And in at the windows, and in at the door,And through the walls, by thousands they pour;And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,From the right and the left, from behind and before,From within and without, from above and below,--And all at once to the bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones,And now they pick the bishop's bones;They gnawed the flesh from every limb,For they were sent to do judgment on him!

But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,His faithful dog shall bear him company. Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense,Weigh thy opinion against Providence:Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such,--Say, here he gives too little, there too much;Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,Yet cry, If man's unhappy, God's unjust,--If man alone engross not Heaven's high care,Alone made perfect here, immortal there;Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,Re-judge his justice, be the god of God.In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies;All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes:Men would be angels, angels would be gods.Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell,Aspiring to be angels, men rebel;And who but wishes to invert the lawsOf Order, sins against the Eternal Cause.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole,Whose body Nature is, and God the soul:That, changed through all, and yet in all the same;Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame;Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees,Lives through all life, extends through all extent,Spreads undivided, operates unspent:Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart;As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,As the rapt seraph that adores and burns:To him no high, no low, no great, no small;He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. Cease then, nor order imperfection name:Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.Know thy own point: This kind, this due degreeOf blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee.Submit.--In this or any other sphere,Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear;Safe in the hand of one disposing Power,Or in the natal or the mortal hour.All nature is but art unknown to thee;All chance, direction which thou canst not see;All discord, harmony not understood;All partial evil, universal good:And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,One truth is clear--Whatever is, is right.

Order is Heaven's first law: and, this confest,Some are and must be greater than the rest,More rich, more wise; but who infers from henceThat such are happier, shocks all common-sense.Heaven to mankind impartial we confess,If all are equal in their happiness:But mutual wants this happiness increase;All nature's difference keeps all nature's peace.Condition, circumstance, is not the thing:Bliss is the same in subject or in king,In who obtain defence or who defend,In him who is or him who finds a friend;Heaven breathes through every member of the wholeOne common blessing, as one common soul.

Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how;Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of thee,And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

We have but faith: we cannot know; For knowledge is of things we see; And yet we trust it comes from thee,A beam in darkness: let it grow.

Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well,May make one music as before,

But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear: But help thy foolish ones to bear;Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

Forgive what seemed my sin in me; What seemed my worth since I began; For merit lives from man to man,And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair.I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved.

Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Confusions of a wasted youth;Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise.

All that Spring, with bounteous hand,Scatters o'er the smiling land;All that liberal Autumn poursFrom her rich o'erflowing stores:

These to Thee, my God, we owe--Source whence all our blessings flow!And for these my soul shall raiseGrateful vows and solemn praise.

Yet should rising whirlwinds tearFrom its stem the ripening ear--Should the fig-tree's blasted shootDrop her green untimely fruit--

Should the vine put forth no more,Nor the olive yield her store--Though the sickening flocks should fall,And the herds desert the stall--

Should Thine altered hand restrainThe early and the latter rain,Blast each opening bud of joy,And the rising year destroy;

Yet to Thee my soul should raiseGrateful vows and solemn praise,And when every blessing's flown,Love Thee--for Thyself alone.

I love to see thee bring to naught The plans of wily men;When simple hearts outwit the wise, Oh, thou art loveliest then.

The headstrong world it presses hard Upon the church full oft,And then how easily thou turn'st The hard ways into soft.

I love to kiss each print where thou Hast set thine unseen feet;I cannot fear thee, blessèd will! Thine empire is so sweet.

When obstacles and trials seem Like prison walls to be,I do the little I can do, And leave the rest to thee.

I know not what it is to doubt, My heart is ever gay;I run no risk, for, come what will, Thou always hast thy way.

I have no cares, O blessèd will! For all my cares are thine:I live in triumph, Lord! for thou Hast made thy triumphs mine.

And when it seems no chance or change From grief can set me free,Hope finds its strength in helplessness, And gayly waits on thee.

Man's weakness, waiting upon God, Its end can never miss,For men on earth no work can do More angel-like than this.

Ride on, ride on, triumphantly, Thou glorious will, ride on!Faith's pilgrim sons behind thee take The road that thou hast gone.

He always wins who sides with God, To him no chance is lost;God's will is sweetest to him, when It triumphs at his cost.

Ill that he blesses is our good, And unblessed good is ill;And all is right that seems most wrong. If it be his sweet will.

I love the sea,--she is my fellow-creature, My careful purveyor; she provides me store;She walls me round; she makes my diet greater; She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore: But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee, What is the ocean or her wealth to me?

To heaven's high city I direct my journey, Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky: But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee? Without thy presence, heaven's no heaven to me.

Without thy presence, earth gives no refection; Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure;Without thy presence, air's a rank infection; Without thy presence, heaven's itself no pleasure: If not possessed, if not enjoyed in thee, What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me?

The highest honors that the world can boast Are subjects far too low for my desire;The brightest beams of glory are, at most, But dying sparkles of thy living fire; The loudest flames that earth can kindle be But nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee.

Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares; Wisdom but folly; joy, disquiet--sadness;Friendship is treason, and delights are snares; Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness; Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be, Nor have their being, when compared with thee.

In having all things, and not thee, what have I? Not having thee, what have my labors got?Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I? And having thee alone, what have I not? I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of thee!

Fairer in their fair hues Than the fresh flowers of earth,More fragrant than the fragrant climes Where odors have their birth.

Each word of thine a gem From the celestial mines,A sunbeam from that holy heaven Where holy sunlight shines.

Thine, thine, this book, though given In man's poor human speech,Telling of things unseen, unheard, Beyond all human reach.

No strength it craves or needs From this world's wisdom vain;No filling up from human wells, Or sublunary rain.

No light from sons of time, Nor brilliance from its gold;It sparkles with its own glad light, As in the ages old.

A thousand hammers keen, With fiery force and strain,Brought down on it in rage and hate, Have struck this gem in vain.

Against this sea-swept rock Ten thousand storms their willOf foam and rage have wildly spent; It lifts its calm face still.

It standeth and will stand, Without or change or age,The word of majesty and light, The church's heritage.

The sailor from his drowning bark Sent up his dying prayer;I looked amid the ruthless storm, And God was there!

I sought a lonely, woody dell, Where all things soft and sweet,Birds, flowers, and trees, and running streams, Mid bright sunshine did meet:I stood beneath an old oak's shade, And summer round was fair;I gazed upon the peaceful scene, And God was there!

I saw a home--a happy home-- Upon a bridal day,And youthful hearts were blithesome there, And aged hearts were gay:I sat amid the smiling band Where all so blissful were--Among the bridal maidens sweet-- And God was there!

I stood beside an infant's couch, When light had left its eye--I saw the mother's bitter tears, I heard her woful cry--I saw her kiss its fair pale face, And smooth its yellow hair;And oh, I loved the mourner's home, For God was there!

I sought a cheerless wilderness-- A desert, pathless wild--Where verdure grew not by the streams, Where beauty never smiled;Where desolation brooded o'er A muirland lone and bare,And awe upon my spirit crept, For God was there!

I looked upon the lowly flower, And on each blade of grass;Upon the forests, wide and deep, I saw the tempests pass:I gazed on all created things In earth, in sea, and air;Then bent the knee--for God, in love, Was everywhere!

Upon this blessed morn;The which His mother, Mary,Nothing did take in scorn.

From God our Heavenly Father,A blessed angel came;And unto certain shepherdsBrought tidings of the same:How that in Bethlehem was bornThe Son of God by name.

"Fear not," then said the angel,"Let nothing you affright,This day is born a SaviourOf virtue, power, and might,So frequently to vanquish allThe friends of Satan quite."

The shepherds at these tidingsRejoiced much in mind,And left their flocks a-feedingIn tempest, storm, and wind,And went to Bethlehem straightway,This blessed babe to find.

But when to Bethlehem they came,Whereat this infant lay,They found Him in a manger,Where oxen feed on hay,His mother Mary kneeling,Unto the Lord did pray.

Now to the Lord sing praises,All you within this place,And with true love and brotherhoodEach other now embrace;This holy tide of ChristmasAll others doth deface.

O tidings of comfort and joy!For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,Was born in Christmas Day.

“Some tiny sphere I built long back (Mid millions of such shapes of mine)So named . . . It perished, surely—not a wrack Remaining, or a sign?

“It lost my interest from the first, My aims therefor succeeding ill;Haply it died of doing as it durst?”— “Lord, it existeth still.”—

“Dark, then, its life! For not a cry Of aught it bears do I now hear;Of its own act the threads were snapt whereby Its plaints had reached mine ear.

“It used to ask for gifts of good, Till came its severance self-entailed,When sudden silence on that side ensued, And has till now prevailed.

“All other orbs have kept in touch; Their voicings reach me speedily:Thy people took upon them overmuch In sundering them from me!

“And it is strange—though sad enough— Earth’s race should think that one whose callFrames, daily, shining spheres of flawless stuff Must heed their tainted ball! . . .

“But say’st thou ’tis by pangs distraught, And strife, and silent suffering?—Deep grieved am I that injury should be wrought Even on so poor a thing!

“Thou should’st have learnt that Not to Mend For Me could mean but Not to Know:Hence, Messengers! and straightway put an end To what men undergo.” . . .

Homing at dawn, I thought to see One of the Messengers standing by.—Oh, childish thought! . . . Yet oft it comes to me When trouble hovers nigh.

That some disaster cleft Thy scheme And tore us wide apart,So that no cry can cross, I deem; For Thou art mild of heart,

And would’st not shape and shut us in Where voice can not he heard:’Tis plain Thou meant’st that we should win Thy succour by a word.

Might but Thy sense flash down the skies Like man’s from clime to clime,Thou would’st not let me agonize Through my remaining time;

But, seeing how much Thy creatures bear— Lame, starved, or maimed, or blind—Thou’dst heal the ills with quickest care Of me and all my kind.

Then, since Thou mak’st not these things be, But these things dost not know,I’ll praise Thee as were shown to me The mercies Thou would’st show!

"We say not He has more to gain, but we have more to lose.Less gold shall go astray, we say, less gold, if thus we choose,Go to make harlots of the Greeks and hucksters of the Jews.

"Less clouds before colossal feet redden in the under-light,To the blind gods from Babylon less incense burn to-night,To the high beasts of Babylon, whose mouths make mock of right."

Babe of the thousand birthdays, we that are young yet grey,White with the centuries, still can find no better thing to say,We that with sects and whims and wars have wasted Christmas Day.

Light Thou Thy censer to Thyself, for all our fires are dim,Stamp Thou Thine image on our coin, for Caesar's face grows dim,And a dumb devil of pride and greed has taken hold of him.

We bring Thee back great Christendom, churches and towns and towers.And if our hands are glad, O God, to cast them down like flowers,'Tis not that they enrich Thine hands, but they are saved from ours.

That night the kings of the earth were gay And filled the cup and can;Last night the kings of the earth were chill For dread of a naked man.

'If he speak two more words,' they said, 'The slave is more than the free;If he speak three more words,' they said, 'The stars are under the sea.'

Said the King of the East to the King of the West, I wot his frown was set,'Lo; let us slay him and make him as dung, It is well that the world forget.'

Said the King of the West to the King of the East, I wot his smile was dread,'Nay, let us slay him and make him a god, It is well that our god be dead.'

They set the young man on a hill, They nailed him to a rod;And there in darkness and in blood They made themselves a god.

And the mightiest word was left unsaid, And the world had never a mark,And the strongest man of the sons of men Went dumb into the dark.

Then hymns and harps of praise they brought, Incense and gold and myrrh,And they thronged above the seraphim, The poor dead carpenter.

'Thou art the prince of all,' they sang, 'Ocean and earth and air.'Then the bird flew on to the cruel cross, And hid in the dead man's hair.

'Thou art the sun of the world,' they cried, 'Speak if our prayers be heard.'And the brown bird stirred in the dead man's hair, And it seemed that the dead man stirred.

Then a shriek went up like the world's last cry From all nations under heaven,And a master fell before a slave And begged to be forgiven.

They cowered, for dread in his wakened eyes The ancient wrath to see;And the bird flew out of the dead Christ's hair, And lit on a lemon-tree.

And belly spread upon his thighs,And costly diamonds for eyes.As Chunder Sen approached and kneltTo show the reverence he felt;Then beat his head upon the sodTo prove his fealty to the god;And then by gestures signifiedThe other sentiments inside;The god's right eye (as Chunder Sen,The wisest and the best of men,Half-fancied) grew by just a thoughtMore narrow than it truly ought.Yet still that prince of devotees,Persistent upon bended kneesAnd elbows bored into the earth,Declared the god's exceeding worth,And begged his favor. Then at last,Within that cavernous and vastThoracic space was heard a soundLike that of water underground--A gurgling note that found a ventAt mouth of that Immortal GentIn such a chuckle as no earHad e'er been privileged to hear!

Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen,The wisest, greatest, best of men,Heard with a natural surpriseThat mighty midriff improvise.And greater yet the marvel wasWhen from between those massive jawsFell words to make the views more plainThe god was pleased to entertain:"Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen,"So ran the rede in speech of men--"Foremost of mortals in assentTo creed of Rational Content,Why come you here to impetrateA blessing on your scurvy pate?Can you not rationally beContent without disturbing me?Can you not take a hint--a wink--Of what of all this rot I think?Is laughter lost upon you quite,To check you in your pious rite?What! know you not we gods protestThat all religion is a jest?You take me seriously?--youAbout me make a great ado(When I but wish to be alone)With attitudes supine and prone,With genuflexions and with prayers,And putting on of solemn airs,To draw my mind from the surveyOf Rational Content away!Learn once for all, if learn you can,This truth, significant to man:A pious person is by oddsThe one most hateful to the gods."Then stretching forth his great right hand,Which shadowed all that sunny land,That deity bestowed a touchWhich Chunder Sen not overmuchEnjoyed--a touch divine that madeThe sufferer hear stars! They playedAnd sang as on Creation's mornWhen spheric harmony was born.

Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen,The most astonished man of men,Fell straight asleep, and when he wokeThe deity nor moved nor spoke,But sat beneath that ancient palmIn sweet and everlasting calm.