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Religious-themed Poetry

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Religious-themed Poetry

Post  J-Bob on Tue Mar 10, 2009 5:57 am

study
Short poems, long poems, red poems, blue poems

Post religiously-themed poems
&
Comment on them (please be polite!)


Last edited by J-Bob on Tue Mar 10, 2009 6:45 am; edited 2 times in total
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"I Killed the Man Who Saved My Life"

Post  J-Bob on Tue Mar 10, 2009 6:37 am

This Man deserved no pain, the Lamb that was slain; no horrors were due His mission,
His words were of love, a just God above; to redeem us was His commission.

Resisting Hell’s best, this Man on a quest; His might was unmatched, unconquered,
Through the jeers and the hate, through the scorn and debate; His words were unhindered, unaltered.

His arms held diseased children, He embraced leprous men; He gave no care to their condition,
Loved the underprivileged and weak, the bold and the meek; He gave no care to their position.

From His words was the power, to make demons cower; all authority, to Him, was given,
His very touch brought redemption, thwarted Satan’s condemnation; from His presence all evil was driven.

He said He’d never leave us, my best friend Jesus; this Man could speak only the truth,
He forgave and forgot, He inspired and He taught; His actions were more than enough proof.

Then from the garden He was taken, His resolution unshaken; the Sanhedrin condemned Him to die,
He was beaten and shamed, insulted and maimed; I could not look Him in the eye.

Carrying all of my sin, with each nail driven in; God’s almighty Son looked upon me,
Then with a bloodied brow, He died with a bow; my Savior took my place upon the tree.

My burdens He bared, my heartaches He shared; He cared through the pain and the strife,
My only hope for Salvation stood between me and damnation; I killed the man who saved my life.



( http://j-bob.deviantart.com/art/IKilledTheManWhoSavedMyLife-64140012 A link to my dA page with my IKTMWSML poem. )
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Re: Religious-themed Poetry

Post  Sammie on Tue Mar 10, 2009 4:11 pm

I think this poem has more of an effect on me than "The Passion"...
Love it! It's beautiful.
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Re: Religious-themed Poetry

Post  J-Bob on Tue Mar 10, 2009 4:16 pm

Thanks! Wink
(O' course you were responsible for this poem. It's a sin to let inspiration pass us by!)
Very Happy
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Re: Religious-themed Poetry

Post  Daina on Fri Mar 13, 2009 4:59 am

I love that poem too. I remember that you had a picture to go along with it and you hung it in your office at KCA, the one with Jesus on the cross, that was always nice to see.
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Re: Religious-themed Poetry

Post  J-Bob on Sun Mar 22, 2009 8:28 am

"10 Percent?"

I give more and I get more… what?
Shouldn’t “giving to receiving” land me in a rut?

I own a house, a fridge, a phone, a car,
And giving a tenth of what I make shouldn’t get me far.

That $50 in the plate could buy me several meals,
Or with it I could purchase some gas for my four wheels.

BUT- lest I forget, the day the deed was done,
When Jesus gave His life for me, paid my eternal sum.

I owe Him more than 10%, and money’s just the start,
To God above I owe my time, my talent, and my heart.



One I wrote during a Men's Fellowship a few months ago____ Mick was expounding on the idea of how preposterous the idea of tithing is- but through God it works and blesses us!
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A Teenager's View of Heaven

Post  Sammie on Wed Apr 15, 2009 10:09 pm

This is an essay written by a 17 year old on the morning before it was due. The next day he died after his car ran off the road into a power pole. He wasn't injured but when he got out of his car he stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.
It's called 'A Teenager's View of Heaven'

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read 'Girls I have liked.' I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

A file named 'Friends' was next to one marked 'Friends I have betrayed.' The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird 'Books I Have Read,' 'Lies I Have Told,' 'Comfort I have Given,' 'Jokes I Have Laughed at .' Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: 'Things I've yelled at my brothers.' Others I couldn't laugh at: 'Things I Have Done in My Anger', 'Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents.' I never ceased to be surprised by the contents.

Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked 'TV Shows I have watched', I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked 'Lustful Thoughts,' I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content.

I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!' In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it.. The title bore 'People I Have Share d the Gospel With.' The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me.. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own.

He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. 'No!' I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was 'No, no,' as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side.

He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, 'It is finished.' I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

_________________
A man can no more diminish God's glory by refusing to worship Him than a lunatic
can put out the sun by scribbling the word, 'darkness' on the walls of his cell.
-C. S. Lewis
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Re: Religious-themed Poetry

Post  J-Bob on Thu Apr 16, 2009 6:45 am

...wow

that's intense...
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Re: Religious-themed Poetry

Post  Jessica on Thu Apr 16, 2009 7:06 am

I've read that piece before, through an e-mail, I think. I love it, though. My eyes always seem to irresistibly well up with tears.
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Satan in the Sanctuary

Post  J-Bob on Fri May 22, 2009 7:14 pm

A poem I wrote a little while ago. I'm not too fond of it, but the concept (which I didn't get across very well in this piece) tickled me.
(I know the ending isn't "correct", but I went with it)

-----------------------------
Satan in the Sanctuary


Satan went to a church Sunday,
The father of lies, of sin,
To see if the war was going his way,
It proved easy for him to get in.

Nice shoes he put on, in a jacket did dress,
Down the hallway the devil did stroll,
He felt anger, cynicism, pride, and stress,
In the hearts of many burning like coals.

At the back row Baal-z did look,
But the pews there proved full, had no room,
So to the front of the church the dark one took,
All behind him a presence of gloom.

The sermon brought a grin to his face,
As Lu looked upon the pompous preach,
The Reverend a near-out candle in this place,
Dry, hollow words lining his speech.

Satan left that church Sunday,
The father of lies, of sin,
Said the fallen angel, the guider astray,
“With His own beloved, this war, I'll win.”

_________________
.

-----People are like shopping carts, no one's perfect!-----
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