Quotes about penance, page 14
Die Another Death
Do you feel the sweltering heat?
Emanating from my slow burning heart!
Do you hear that dernier cri?
Made by my moribund mind!
Yeah! You do! You feel them!
But I know why from my nigh
You slyly rear away in fear with a sigh
That your titillating fragrance can
Infuse new bounce and breathe in me
That one dropp of tear from your eyes
Can become my rejuvenating nectar!
That your spraying radiance for sure
Can rekindle the vital flame in me! !
You take a stance sans this kindness
Towards a man with dying senses! ! !
You renounced my covetous embrace
Punishing yourself with forced penance
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poem by Sathya Narayana
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Silence
Silence builds within these walls.
Across my brain a dark spectre crawls.
I feel the maddness creeping in.
Or was it long ago it did begin?
I can not tell,
because I reside within my shell.
Where only silence calms infernal hell.
Internal silence to keep from breaking.
I've hurt enough.
I take refuge,
from all the pain I dealt to you.
A dark shadow I cast upon your life.
Now silence strikes,
and blindness hides the love we shared.
Myself I now despise.
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poem by Michael McParland
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In The Name Of God
In the name of God, you prophecy.
In the name of God you cry.
Down the centuries you've had your say,
And loudly you shout it still today.
In the name of truth, people hear you yearn,
For the peace that from the Lord you'll learn.
But is fear the way to smooth the path?
With coffers full, I hear you laugh.
Come out and stand in your own truth.
Look at yourselves, and raise the roof.
Not to the idols on bended knee,
But for balance and love for Eternity.
It's not in the name of God, I cry.
Come on all humans, open an eye.
Follow the path of truth and sight.
Be blinded only by Universal Light.
Don't be drawn to the ego of men, not God.
Look only at where your own feet have trod.
Don't be afraid to see what is here.
God, Goddess, Eternity, joyous and clear.
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poem by Rosi Caswell
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The Moment Of Need...
for too long the religion
of America's masses was the
'American dream'...
fueled by token visits to
sterile churches, where for
guilt donations and moments
of penance, fueled by terror
feared images of a capitalistic
god... one achieved the dream
of heaven.
success burnt in opium pipes
while the man in the gutter
remained both faceless, and
wretched.
now the gutters are full of
raw and real bleeding hearts,
and children burn on the altars
of a vengeful god...
the dreams have shattered...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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All Soul's Day
They throng the tombs of near and dear,
To pray for souls in Purgatory;
They offer masses, light candles,
And place flowers on cemetery.
They visit tombs of orphans, friends,
And hear Requiem masses this day;
They give alms, singing hymns for dead,
Pleading for God's mercy and pray.
No soul is sinless on dying;
The soul must be freed off all sins;
The venial sins forgotten need
To be dumped in Purgatory's bins!
We ought to pray for all the dead,
Our kith and kin and strangers too;
The dead cannot do more penance,
And earn the grace of God on own!
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poem by John Celes
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’Tis Easter-time Again!
Easter is coming, once again;
It is a boon and not a bane;
The year is two thousand and seven;
’Tis time to prepare your soul for heaven.
Follow the road taken by Christ’s cross;
Offer your sorrows to Jesus, the boss;
This is the time to sacrifice;
Make up your mind to give up all vice!
Forgive and forget your neighbors’ faults;
Bear not witness against him false;
Waste not time and never tell lies;
A Christian ought to be soul-wise.
Jesus died to rise again;
His sufferings were not in vain;
He left His Holy Spirit here,
For us to live, without any fear.
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poem by John Celes
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The Monk
WHEN in my narrow cell I lie,
The long day's penance done at last,
I see the ghosts of days gone by,
And hear the voices of the past.
I see the blue-gray wood-smoke curled
From hearths where life has rhymed to love,
I see the kingdoms of the world--
The glory and the power thereof,
And cry, 'Ah, vainly have I striven!'
And then a voice calls, soft and low:
'Thou gavest My Earth to win My Heaven;
But Heaven-on-Earth thou mayest not know!'
It is not for Thy Heaven, O Lord,
That I renounced Thy pleasant earth--
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poem by Edith Nesbit
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Until The Day Is Done
Any days rife with anger are long-since gone;
Remaining behind is hurt and confusion, long-lingering, since its dawn!
Love, alone, should've been enough for reasoned thought to follow,
Believe, I do, the mantra: 'always tell the truth...', your words are hollow!
Long gone too, any want for vengeance:
God shall allow for you to serve your penance!
Your futile attempt to prove me guilty, proved you to be such,
Though perhaps deserving of punishment, penal-may be too much!
Self-guilt, served with a helping of inner-shame shall, I believe, suffice,
Though, a taste of your bitter medicine, I think, at times, to be nice!
You have implied in the past that, perhaps I love thee not sufficiently-
It appears though, that you were the one loving deficiently!
If anyone need prove anything, to anyone,
It is you, to me and all others! I await thee dear, until the day is done!
Maurice Harris,17 January 2008
poem by Maurice Harris
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Doomed Padre
The Loss of Faith
Fated priest when he walks in front of a funeral
procession his gait is often wobbly, says it is stiff
joints; smells of aftershave lotion and brandy.
Lost his faith years ago, in the night his prayer
echoes in the village church.
Thinks it his fault that god has left him in a vacuum
of disbelief a penance for not having a total godly
deference. In his dreams he meets god who speaks
in a language he doesn´t understand; he wakes up
bedroom bleak, and the voice of god has gone.
He says as Jesus once did, why have you forsaken me?
Has a brandy goes back to a restless sleep.
And there is no peace as sexual needs takes over,
actions he will not abide. Morning and he is thankful.
Routines of the day someone has died, funeral service,
and a woman who wants confess her banal sins,
he murmurs prayers, waits for god to answer why he
has lost his faith, but there is only silence.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Twins
"Give" and "It-shall-be-given-unto-you"
I
Grand rough old Martin Luther
Bloomed fables-flowers on furze,
The better the uncouther:
Do roses stick like burrs?
II
A beggar asked an alms
One day at an abbey-door,
Said Luther; but, seized with qualms,
The abbot replied, "We're poor!"
III
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poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
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