A New Patient on the Ward
He told them he was nearly enlightened,
They shook their heads and started to frown -
Any talk of Religion gets them frightened
So they prescribed some drugs to bring him down,
'Perhaps he thinks that he is Jesus
Who walked the waves at Galilee?
The only cure for his disease is
Some anti-psychotics and ECT'
They say he wanted to strangle his sister
Because of some strange Masonic plot,
His father had left him some land and money,
She intended to trick him and swipe the lot! !
He has ideas above his station
And we can't just allow him to walk free,
It's probably due to excessive masturbation
And an Oedipus Complex at the age of three.
This is the way we treat trouble-makers
And all the critics of Society,
We lock 'em up in the local nuthouse,
We lock 'em up and throw away the key! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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I Saw It Myself (Short Verse Drama)
Dramatis Personae: Adrian, his wife Ester, his sisters Rebecca and Johanna, his mother Elizabeth, the high priest Chiapas, the disciple Simon Peter, the disciple John, Mary Magdalene, worshipers, priests, two angels and Jesus Christ.
Act I
Scene I.- Adrian’s house in Jerusalem. Adrian has just returned home after a business journey in Galilee, in time to attend the Passover feast. He sits at the table with his wife Ester and his sisters, Rebecca and Johanna. It’s just before sunset on the Friday afternoon.
Adrian. (Somewhat puzzled) Strange things are happening,
some say demons dwell upon the earth,
others angelic beings, miracles take place
and all of this when they had put a man to death,
had crucified a criminal. Everybody knows
the cross is used for degenerates only!
Rebecca. (With a pleasant voice) Such harsh words used,
for a good, a great man brother?
They say that without charge
he healed the sick, brought back sight,
cured leprosy, even made some more food,
from a few fishes and loafs of bread…
Adrian. (Somewhat harsh) They say many things!
That he rode into Jerusalem
to be crowned as the new king,
was a rebel against the state,
even claimed to be
the very Son of God,
now that is blasphemy
if there is no truth to it!
Johanna. I met him once.
He’s not the man
that you make him, brother.
There was a strange tranquilly to Him.
Some would say a divine presence,
while He spoke of love that is selfless,
visited the sick, the poor
and even the destitute, even harlots.
Adrian. (Looks up) There you have it!
Harlots! Tax collecting thieves!
A man is know by his friends,
or so they say and probably
there is some truth to it.
Ester. Husband, do not be so quick to judge.
I have seen Him myself, have seen
Roman soldiers marching Him to the hill
to take His life, with a angry crowd
following and mocking Him.
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi
Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Wasteland
Out into the wasteland
Out into the wasteland
No religion
No religion, no religion at all
No religion
No religion, no religion at all
No religion, no religion at all
No religion
No religion, no religion at all
No religion
No religion at all
No religion
Emissionary man amongst the heathen
Cant you see a modern primitive
I came back, Im gonna find,
Im gonna give religion
When there was, no religion at all
Im outta the wasteland
Im into this head man
Im outta the wasteland
No religion at all
Im outta the wasteland
Im into this head man
Im outta the wasteland
No religion, no religion at all
Theres a man in need of resurrection
(no religion)
Cant you see a modern primitive
(no religion)
But Im a man I need my love and
Freedom (no religion)
When there was no freedom at all
Im outta the wasteland
Im into this head man
Im outta the wasteland
No religion at all
Im outta the wasteland
Im into this head man
Im outta the wasteland
No religion, no religion at all
No religion
No religion at all
No religion
No religion at all
In vr land
The future of fun
Tell me what to do
In vr law
Computer crime
Um, so sublime
[...] Read more
song performed by Billy Idol
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The House Of Dust: Complete
I.
The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.
And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.
'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.
We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .
Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.
Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.
Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.
II.
[...] Read more
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Strange Things Happen
She believes in god
And karma too
Paranormal powers
You know some people do
Got scorpio risin
Uh huh
Tell you whats in your stars
She was down in rio
Turn the heads of state
Got em into makin
This planet a better place
On copacabana
Uh huh
Oh yeah she radiate better go meditate
Everytime I touch my baby
Strange things happen
Strange things happen
Everytime I touch my baby
Strange things happen to me
Strange things happen
Oh ohhh ohhhh
Oh oh strange things happen
Everytime I touch my baby
Strange things happen to me
Met a pshycic reader
With a crystal ball
Had a vision
Said we could have it all
I caught her gazin
Uh huh
At our destiny cosmically
Everytime I touch my baby
Strange things happen
Oh ohhh ohhhh
Oh oh strange things happen
Everytime I touch my baby
Strange things happen to me
Strange things happen
Oh ohhh ohhhh
Oh oh strange things happen
Everytime I touch my baby
Strange things happen to me
Strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange
Strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange
Strange strange strange
Strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange
Strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange
Strange strange strange
Strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange
Strange strange strange strange strange
song performed by Beach Boys
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Jesus Power over Demons
Jesus' Power Over Demons
home » sermons » 06-24-07
June 24,2007 — The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost
“Jesus' Power Over Demons” — Pastor Lassman
Luke 8: 26-39
Listen
My Fellow Redeemed in Christ,
Do you believe in a real Satan? Do you believe that there are demons? I’m sure you do, but if you don’t you should. Of course, such things might seem strange in our scientific and technical world and many people don’t believe in Satan or evil spirits. And, being spirits, we cannot see Satan or demons. But the Bible talks a great deal about them. I’ve never seen Satan or a demon, but I believe in them not only because the Bible talks about them, but especially because Jesus Christ himself speaks about Satan and demons. In the church we often talk about sin and death, and rightly so. But we should never forget about Satan and his evil forces. For they go together: Satan, sin, and death as Martin Luther says in his Small Catechism about Jesus: “who has redeemed me a lost a condemned person, purchased and won me from all sin, from death….and from the power of the devil.” The power of the devil. That brings us to our gospel lesson where we see “Jesus’ Power Over Demons.”
I. In Jesus Christ the kingdom of God has come to attack and destroy the kingdom of Satan. When he began his public ministry at his baptism Jesus said: “repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand.”.
A. God, of course, had created a perfect world. This included what we would call the “good angels.” But some of those angels, led by their leader, Satan, were not happy with their position in God’s order: they wanted to be God. And in their evil rebellion against God they were transformed into demons who oppose God and all that he stands for. It was their leader, Satan, who showed up as a snake in the Garden of Eden to tempt Adam and Eve to also be like God. And so sin and death came into the world. Satan had invaded God’s world and trashed it. Demons are the source of the world’s superstitions and religions. Demons are the ones behind those who persecute and kill Christians. Demons are the ones behind all the false doctrines that divide the Christian church. With deception and lies they do all in their power to keep people from believing in Jesus Christ and to destroy the faith of those who already believe. Thus the Bible calls the devil our “enemy”. There is an underlying evil in the world that human beings are helpless to overcome. The demon possessed man in our text symbolizes all of this. But remember that every human being is born into this world under the influence of Satan and a member of his kingdom as the apostle John says in his first letter: ”the whole world is under the control of the Evil one.” When you and I were born in the world, we too were under the control of the evil one—enslaved to sin and death, under God’s wrath and damnation. Never forget that.
B. And that’s why Jesus came into the world: to attack and destroy the kingdom of Satan and save his people. He trashed the kingdom of Satan, defeating him and giving mankind victory over sin and death. You can hear the fear in the evil spirit’s voice: “what have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the most high God.” They are filled with terror because they know that Jesus is stronger than they are. They are afraid of Jesus: “I beg you do not torment me.” They know that on the judgment day Jesus Christ will cast them into the fires of hell as we read in revelation: “and the devil..was thrown into the lake of burning sulpher, where the beast and the false prophet had been thrown. They will be tormented day and night.” And so the spirits begged Jesus not to send them “into the abyss.” The demon was afraid that that day had come. But it had not. So Jesus told them to leave the man and enter the pigs. And they had no choice but to do what he said. Now in our gospel Jesus only delivered one man from demon possession. But on the cross he delivered all of humanity, you and me, from Satan and his forces by dying for our sins. Because of Jesus Christ we never have to fear being possessed by a demon—for our bodies are the temple of God. Because of Jesus Christ we can resist the devil and his temptations—for in baptism we have been united to Jesus Christ. Because of Jesus Christ the devil cannot scare us with death or damnation—for all our sins are forgiven and we will be raised from the dead. Because of Jesus Christ the devil cannot deceive us with his lies because we know the truth. Paul says it all when he writes in Colossians: “for he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.” (Col.1: 13) you and I have been rescued from Satan and his kingdom—he has no power over us.
II. But as always there are two responses to Jesus.
A. Regardless of the evidence, some people just won’t believe. We see this in our text. There were eyewitnesses to what had happened—the herdsmen who tended the pigs. And they went and told the city and the whole country-side what they had seen. Indeed, they created such a stir that many people went out to the spot where it happened to see for themselves. And there was Jesus- and the man sitting at his feet. And they saw with their own eyes the difference in him. He was no longer naked, but clothed; no longer out of his mind and violent, but calm and in his right mind. He was normal. Clearly, something profound and wonderful had happened. And now comes the strange response: “then all the people of the surrounding country…asked him to depart from them, for they were seized with fear.” What? ! Why did they say that? ! Couldn’t they see that Jesus had done something good, something kind, something merciful, something wonderful? Why did they ask him to leave? Did they care more about the pigs that were destroyed than they did for the well-being of this man? We are not told. But all through the gospels we hear of people who do not believe in Jesus even though they saw him doing miracles and wonderful acts of kindness. Perhaps we get a clue when just fourteen verses before our text Jesus says: “[these] are the ones who hear, and then the devil comes and takes away the words from their hearts so that they may not believe and be saved.” Many people prefer the kingdom of Satan. They like the darkness more than the light
B. But that wasn’t the response of the man from whom the demons left! He believed and was thankful for what Jesus had done for him. As a matter of fact, he was so grateful that he begged Jesus to go with him. But here’s another little surprise- Jesus said “no”. Instead he told him to return to his home and tell everyone what God had done for him. And that’s exactly what he did: he went home and told everyone what Jesus had done for him. I imagine that took a lot of faith. His emotions told him he wanted to be with Jesus. But he denied his emotions and instead did what Jesus told him to do. And so it is with us. We too are thankful for what Jesus has done for us. Every Sunday through the forgiveness of sins he gives us victory over sin and death and the power of Satan and the forces of evil. Such is the power of god’s forgiveness. We love coming here on Sunday mornings and being with Jesus and receiving his salvation. And yet as important as it is, we cannot sit in church all the time. Jesus wants us to return to our homes, our work, our schools—our communities and tell everyone what he has done.
Conclusion: when Jesus drove the demons out of that man Jesus attacked the kingdom of Satan. But when he died for the sins of the world Jesus destroyed Satan’s kingdom. And through faith in him we share in his victory. For Satan’s only weapons are lies, sin, and death. But in Jesus Christ we know the truth; in Jesus Christ our sin has been forgiven, and in Jesus Christ death has been defeated and we have life. Satan has no power over us. Indeed, we can resist him. And how do we know this is true? Well, we see Jesus casting out helpless demons who fear him and must obey him. But the main proof is the empty tomb. When Jesus was raised from the dead God’s hand was raised in victory over Satan and his kingdom. Everywhere the gospel of Jesus Christ is preached and taught the kingdom of Satan is trashed. And one day Jesus will return and cast Satan and all demons into the abyss that they fear so much. Amen!
Messiah Lutheran Church Seattle - Missouri Synod
7050 35th Avenue NE | Seattle, WA 98115 | (206) 524-0024
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poem by Mthokozisi Ntokozo Maphumulo
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The Cenci : A Tragedy In Five Acts
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
Count Francesco Cenci.
Giacomo, his Son.
Bernardo, his Son.
Cardinal Camillo.
Orsino, a Prelate.
Savella, the Pope's Legate.
Olimpio, Assassin.
Marzio, Assassin.
Andrea, Servant to Cenci.
Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants.
Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children.
Beatrice, his Daughter.
The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines.
Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.
ACT I
Scene I.
-An Apartment in the Cenci Palace.
Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo.
Camillo.
That matter of the murder is hushed up
If you consent to yield his Holiness
Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.-
It needed all my interest in the conclave
To bend him to this point: he said that you
Bought perilous impunity with your gold;
That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded
Enriched the Church, and respited from hell
An erring soul which might repent and live:-
But that the glory and the interest
Of the high throne he fills, little consist
With making it a daily mart of guilt
As manifold and hideous as the deeds
Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes.
Cenci.
The third of my possessions-let it go!
Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope
Had sent his architect to view the ground,
Meaning to build a villa on my vines
The next time I compounded with his uncle:
I little thought he should outwit me so!
[...] Read more
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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VII. Pompilia
I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.
All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.
Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Tamar
I
A night the half-moon was like a dancing-girl,
No, like a drunkard's last half-dollar
Shoved on the polished bar of the eastern hill-range,
Young Cauldwell rode his pony along the sea-cliff;
When she stopped, spurred; when she trembled, drove
The teeth of the little jagged wheels so deep
They tasted blood; the mare with four slim hooves
On a foot of ground pivoted like a top,
Jumped from the crumble of sod, went down, caught, slipped;
Then, the quick frenzy finished, stiffening herself
Slid with her drunken rider down the ledges,
Shot from sheer rock and broke
Her life out on the rounded tidal boulders.
The night you know accepted with no show of emotion the little
accident; grave Orion
Moved northwest from the naked shore, the moon moved to
meridian, the slow pulse of the ocean
Beat, the slow tide came in across the slippery stones; it drowned
the dead mare's muzzle and sluggishly
Felt for the rider; Cauldwell’s sleepy soul came back from the
blind course curious to know
What sea-cold fingers tapped the walls of its deserted ruin.
Pain, pain and faintness, crushing
Weights, and a vain desire to vomit, and soon again
die icy fingers, they had crept over the loose hand and lay in the
hair now. He rolled sidewise
Against mountains of weight and for another half-hour lay still.
With a gush of liquid noises
The wave covered him head and all, his body
Crawled without consciousness and like a creature with no bones,
a seaworm, lifted its face
Above the sea-wrack of a stone; then a white twilight grew about
the moon, and above
The ancient water, the everlasting repetition of the dawn. You
shipwrecked horseman
So many and still so many and now for you the last. But when it
grew daylight
He grew quite conscious; broken ends of bone ground on each
other among the working fibers
While by half-inches he was drawing himself out of the seawrack
up to sandy granite,
Out of the tide's path. Where the thin ledge tailed into flat cliff
he fell asleep. . . .
Far seaward
The daylight moon hung like a slip of cloud against the horizon.
The tide was ebbing
From the dead horse and the black belt of sea-growth. Cauldwell
seemed to have felt her crying beside him,
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Absalom and Achitophel
In pious times, e'er Priest-craft did begin,
Before Polygamy was made a sin;
When man, on many, multiply'd his kind,
E'r one to one was, cursedly, confind:
When Nature prompted, and no law deny'd
Promiscuous use of Concubine and Bride;
Then, Israel's monarch, after Heaven's own heart,
His vigorous warmth did, variously, impart
To Wives and Slaves; And, wide as his Command,
Scatter'd his Maker's Image through the Land.
Michal, of Royal blood, the Crown did wear,
A Soyl ungratefull to the Tiller's care;
Not so the rest; for several Mothers bore
To Godlike David, several Sons before.
But since like slaves his bed they did ascend,
No True Succession could their seed attend.
Of all this Numerous Progeny was none
So Beautifull, so brave as Absalon:
Whether, inspir'd by some diviner Lust,
His father got him with a greater Gust;
Or that his Conscious destiny made way
By manly beauty to Imperiall sway.
Early in Foreign fields he won Renown,
With Kings and States ally'd to Israel's Crown
In Peace the thoughts of War he could remove,
And seem'd as he were only born for love.
What e'er he did was done with so much ease,
In him alone, 'twas Natural to please.
His motions all accompanied with grace;
And Paradise was open'd in his face.
With secret Joy, indulgent David view'd
His Youthfull Image in his Son renew'd:
To all his wishes Nothing he deny'd,
And made the Charming Annabel his Bride.
What faults he had (for who from faults is free?)
His Father could not, or he would not see.
Some warm excesses, which the Law forbore,
Were constru'd Youth that purg'd by boyling o'r:
And Amnon's Murther, by a specious Name,
Was call'd a Just Revenge for injur'd Fame.
Thus Prais'd, and Lov'd, the Noble Youth remain'd,
While David, undisturb'd, in Sion raign'd.
But Life can never be sincerely blest:
Heaven punishes the bad, and proves the best.
The Jews, a Headstrong, Moody, Murmuring race,
As ever try'd th' extent and stretch of grace;
God's pamper'd people whom, debauch'd with ease,
No King could govern, nor no God could please;
(Gods they had tri'd of every shape and size
That Gods-smiths could produce, or Priests devise.)
[...] Read more
poem by John Dryden
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Sister Helen
"Why did you melt your waxen man
Sister Helen?
To-day is the third since you began."
"The time was long, yet the time ran,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!)
"But if you have done your work aright,
Sister Helen,
You'll let me play, for you said I might."
"Be very still in your play to-night,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!)
"You said it must melt ere vesper-bell,
Sister Helen;
If now it be molten, all is well."
"Even so,--nay, peace! you cannot tell,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
O what is this, between Hell and Heaven?)
"Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day,
Sister Helen;
How like dead folk he has dropp'd away!"
"Nay now, of the dead what can you say,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?)
"See, see, the sunken pile of wood,
Sister Helen,
Shines through the thinn'd wax red as blood!"
"Nay now, when look'd you yet on blood,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!)
"Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore,
Sister Helen,
And I'll play without the gallery door."
"Aye, let me rest,--I'll lie on the floor,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)
"Here high up in the balcony,
Sister Helen,
[...] Read more
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Bride's Prelude
“Sister,” said busy Amelotte
To listless Aloÿse;
“Along your wedding-road the wheat
Bends as to hear your horse's feet,
And the noonday stands still for heat.”
Amelotte laughed into the air
With eyes that sought the sun:
But where the walls in long brocade
Were screened, as one who is afraid
Sat Aloÿse within the shade.
And even in shade was gleam enough
To shut out full repose
From the bride's 'tiring-chamber, which
Was like the inner altar-niche
Whose dimness worship has made rich.
Within the window's heaped recess
The light was counterchanged
In blent reflexes manifold
From perfume-caskets of wrought gold
And gems the bride's hair could not hold,
All thrust together: and with these
A slim-curved lute, which now,
At Amelotte's sudden passing there,
Was swept in somewise unaware,
And shook to music the close air.
Against the haloed lattice-panes
The bridesmaid sunned her breast;
Then to the glass turned tall and free,
And braced and shifted daintily
Her loin-belt through her côte-hardie.
The belt was silver, and the clasp
Of lozenged arm-bearings;
A world of mirrored tints minute
The rippling sunshine wrought into 't,
That flushed her hand and warmed her foot.
At least an hour had Aloÿse—
Her jewels in her hair—
Her white gown, as became a bride,
Quartered in silver at each side—
Sat thus aloof, as if to hide.
Over her bosom, that lay still,
The vest was rich in grain,
With close pearls wholly overset:
Around her throat the fastenings met
Of chevesayle and mantelet.
Her arms were laid along her lap
With the hands open: life
Itself did seem at fault in her:
Beneath the drooping brows, the stir
Of thought made noonday heavier.
[...] Read more
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Lancelot And Elaine
Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,
High in her chamber up a tower to the east
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;
Which first she placed where the morning's earliest ray
Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam;
Then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for it
A case of silk, and braided thereupon
All the devices blazoned on the shield
In their own tinct, and added, of her wit,
A border fantasy of branch and flower,
And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.
Nor rested thus content, but day by day,
Leaving her household and good father, climbed
That eastern tower, and entering barred her door,
Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,
Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms,
Now made a pretty history to herself
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,
And every scratch a lance had made upon it,
Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh;
That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;
That at Caerleon; this at Camelot:
And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there!
And here a thrust that might have killed, but God
Broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down,
And saved him: so she lived in fantasy.
How came the lily maid by that good shield
Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name?
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt
For the great diamond in the diamond jousts,
Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name
Had named them, since a diamond was the prize.
For Arthur, long before they crowned him King,
Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse,
Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn.
A horror lived about the tarn, and clave
Like its own mists to all the mountain side:
For here two brothers, one a king, had met
And fought together; but their names were lost;
And each had slain his brother at a blow;
And down they fell and made the glen abhorred:
And there they lay till all their bones were bleached,
And lichened into colour with the crags:
And he, that once was king, had on a crown
Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside.
And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass,
All in a misty moonshine, unawares
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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Ballad Of Jesus Of Nazareth
I.
It matters not what place he drew
At first life's mortal breath,
Some say it was in Bethlehem,
And some in Nazareth.
But shame and sorrow were his lot
And shameful was his death.
The angels sang, and o'er the barn
Wherein the infant lay,
They hung a star, for they foresaw
The sad world's better day,
But well God knew what thyme and rue
Were planted by his way.
The children of the Pharisees
In hymn and orison
Worshipped the prophets, whom their sires
To cruel death had done,
And said, 'had we been there their death
We had not looked upon.'
While the star shone the angels saw
The tombs these children built
For those the world had driven out,
And smitten to the hilt,
God knew these wretched sons would bear
The self-same bloody guilt.
Always had he who strives for men
But done some other thing,
If he had not led a hermit life,
Or had not had his fling,
We would have followed him, they say,
And made him lord and King.
For John was clothed in camel's hair
And lived among the brutes;
But Jesus fared where the feast was spread
To the sound of shawms and lutes,
Where gathered knaves and publicans
And hapless prostitutes.
Like children in the market place
Who sullen sat and heard,
With John they would not mourn, nor yet
Rejoice at Jesus' word;
Had Jesus mourned, or John rejoiced,
He had been King and lord.
[...] Read more
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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First Book
OF writing many books there is no end;
And I who have written much in prose and verse
For others' uses, will write now for mine,–
Will write my story for my better self,
As when you paint your portrait for a friend,
Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it
Long after he has ceased to love you, just
To hold together what he was and is.
I, writing thus, am still what men call young;
I have not so far left the coasts of life
To travel inland, that I cannot hear
That murmur of the outer Infinite
Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep
When wondered at for smiling; not so far,
But still I catch my mother at her post
Beside the nursery-door, with finger up,
'Hush, hush–here's too much noise!' while her sweet eyes
Leap forward, taking part against her word
In the child's riot. Still I sit and feel
My father's slow hand, when she had left us both,
Stroke out my childish curls across his knee;
And hear Assunta's daily jest (she knew
He liked it better than a better jest)
Inquire how many golden scudi went
To make such ringlets. O my father's hand,
Stroke the poor hair down, stroke it heavily,–
Draw, press the child's head closer to thy knee!
I'm still too young, too young to sit alone.
I write. My mother was a Florentine,
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from seeing me
When scarcely I was four years old; my life,
A poor spark snatched up from a failing lamp
Which went out therefore. She was weak and frail;
She could not bear the joy of giving life–
The mother's rapture slew her. If her kiss
Had left a longer weight upon my lips,
It might have steadied the uneasy breath,
And reconciled and fraternised my soul
With the new order. As it was, indeed,
I felt a mother-want about the world,
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb
Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,–
As restless as a nest-deserted bird
Grown chill through something being away, though what
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born
To make my father sadder, and myself
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know
The way to rear up children, (to be just,)
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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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Give Your Heart To The Hawks
1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,
That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass
Under the old trees with rosy fruit.
In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a
basket,
The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.
Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile
Flowed into a thicket of dead thistle-stalks
Around a fence-post, but its tail was not hidden.
The young man drew it all out, and as the coil
Whipped over his wrist, smiled at it; he stepped carefully
Across the sag of the wire. When Fayne looked up
His hand was hidden; she looked over her shoulder
And twitched her sunburnt lips from small white teeth
To answer the spark of malice in his eyes, but turned
To the apples, intent again. Michael looked down
At her white neck, rarely touched by the sun,
But now the cinnabar-colored hair fell off from it;
And her shoulders in the light-blue shirt, and long legs like a boy's
Bare-ankled in blue-jean trousers, the country wear;
He stooped quietly and slipped the small cool snake
Up the blue-denim leg. Fayne screamed and writhed,
Clutching her thigh. 'Michael, you beast.' She stood up
And stroked her leg, with little sharp cries, the slender invader
Fell down her ankle.
Fayne snatched for it and missed;
Michael stood by rejoicing, his rather small
Finely cut features in a dance of delight;
Fayne with one sweep flung at his face
All the bruised and half-spoiled apples in the pan,
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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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III. The Other Half-Rome
Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!
There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk
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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Bible in Poetry: Gospel of St. Matthew (Chapter 26)
Then Jesus told His disciples,
‘’Twill be Pass-ov’r in two days’ time;
The Son of Man will handed be
Over to them who crucify! ’
So, chief priests and all elders there
Assembled in Caiaphas’ palace.
They consulted with the high priest
On how to arrest Jesus by
Treachery and put Him to death.
They decided not to do so,
During the festival-time as
A riot, people could then cause.
In Bethany, while Jesus was
Within Simon, the leper’s house,
There came a woman with a jar
Of costly, perfumed oil and poured
It on his head while he reclined.
His disciples grew indignant
And asked, ‘Why waste such costly oil?
The money could have been given
Better to poor as charity! ’
As Jesus knew this, He told them,
‘Don’t you trouble the woman as,
A good thing for me, done, she has! ’
‘The poor can always have you but
You’ll not have me with you always.
By pouring oil on my body,
She prepared it for burial! ’
‘Amen, amen, I say to you,
Wherever this gospel is proclaimed
On earth, her act will be retold,
And lauded in her memory.’
Then one amongst the Twelve, Judas
Iscariot went to the chief priests
And asked, ‘What will you give to me,
If I hand him over to you? ’
They paid him thirty silver coins.
From that time onwards, he looked for
A chance to hand Jesus over.
When on the first day of the Feast
Of Unleavened Bread, disciples
Asked, ‘Where do you want us to prepare
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poem by John Celes
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Bible in Poetry: Gospel of St. John (Chapter 6)
When Jesus went across the Sea
Of Galilee, a crowd followed;
They saw His miracles on sick;
He ascended the mountain-slope
And sat down with His disciples;
The Feast of Passover was near.
Then Jesus saw a large crowd come;
He asked Philip, ‘Where to buy food? ’
He asked this just to test Philip.
He knew what He’as going to do.
Then Philip replied, ‘Two hundred
Days’ wages worth food wouldn’t suffice.’
Andrew told Jesus, ‘There’s a boy
With barley loaves five and fish two.
It wouldn’t do well for such a crowd.’
Then Jesus told the crowd to rest.
Five thousand people sat on grass.
Then Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks
And had it shared along with fish.
When all had eaten indeed well,
Jesus told, ‘Gather all fragments.’
It was twelve wicker basketsful.
When people saw the miracle,
They accepted Jesus, Prophet-
The one who had come to the world!
They wanted to make Him the king.
So, Jesus withdrew to mountain.
When evening came, they went by boat,
Across the sea to Capernaum.
While traveling, it turned quite dark;
The sea was rough with fierce a wind.
When they had gone three miles off-shore,
They saw Jesus come walk on sea
Towards the boat, and grew afraid.
But Jesus said, ‘It’s I, Don’t fear! ’
They thought Jesus would come aboard;
But suddenly, the boat reached shore!
They realized the next day that
The disciples had come by boat
But Jesus did not come by same!
From Tiberias, other boats came.
As Jesus had not arrived still,
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poem by John Celes
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