English Christian Poetry

[John Nyberg]

Hello brothers and sisters. George Herbert (1593- 1633) the 17th century poet and Anglican clergyman wrote this verse in his sonnet titled "The Sonne":

"I like our language, as our men and coast;
Who cannot dresse it well, want wit, not words."

Herbert believed that the English language was a fitting vessel for beautiful poetry (although he was fluent in writing Latin verse as well!). His English poetry collection titled "The Temple" is regarded as some of the best devotional poetry ever written. I have studied him for nearly a decade and I continue to benefit from his sharp insight on the Christian life.

For this forum, I would like to see users share Christian verse, whether that be poetry or hymns or psalms to English meter, that they enjoy from the past or present. There are many examples we might choose from such as John Donne, John Newton, John Milton (enough of the Johns) George Herbert, George Macdonald, C.S. Lewis, Charles Spurgeon... and any others you can think of! You can post portions or whole texts. I will post a single poem every week for as long as the forum is allowed to stay open.

Here is the rest of that sonnet by Herbert:

Let forrain nations of their language boast,
What fine varietie each tongue affords:
I like our language, as our men and coast:
Who cannot dresse it well, want wit, not words.
How neatly doe we give one onely name
To parents issue and the sunnes bright starre!
A sonne is light and fruit; a fruitfull flame
Chasing the fathers dimnesse, carri’d farre
From the first man in th’ East, to fresh and new
Western discov’ries of posteritie.
So in one word our Lords humilitie
We turn upon him in a sense most true:
For what Christ once in humblenesse began,
We him in glorie call, The Sonne of Man.

'The Sonne'

Celebrating the 17th Century poet and priest George Herbert, his association with Bemerton (near Salisbury) and the historic St. Andrew's church

www.georgeherbert.org.uk

 

[Pomopu]

Cool idea, John. Here is a modern selection:

T.S Eliot (excerpt) The Waste Land

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
...

T.S. Elliot possesses a compelling vision of the good, the true, and the beautiful. But looking around him, at a modernity that vaporizes all sense of the transcendent, all sense of God, and all sense of tradition, he pronounces upon Europe its godlessness, in prophetic fashion, in The Waste Land. And of course, he lived through two world wars. No unending optimism for human progress might persist after that.

Far better than being a culture warrior, Elliott was a poet. Because, in my mind, a poet (like Elliott) understands when an institution, when an ideal, when a movement, is dead; when a people are dead. When Britain had given up on God. Jesus says, "Be ye born again." Before one can really share the gospel; before one can aim at social amelioration; like Elliott, one must realize, first and foremost, that this world is a waste land world, a world post-enlightenment, suffering from the enlightenment, suffering from the rejection of God. Nietzsche came, and he conquered.

Perhaps Mr. Eliot has this to say, in 2025: Do we view the world as a waste land world? And the Church, as the sole living oasis therein? As Reformed Christians squabble over arcane points of theology, the waste land grows ever starker, and ever deadlier! As we refine the elegance of our parapets.

 

[John Nyberg]

Cool idea, John. Here is a modern selection:

T.S Eliot (excerpt) The Waste Land

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
...

T.S. Elliot possesses a compelling vision of the good, the true, and the beautiful. But looking around him, at a modernity that vaporizes all sense of the transcendent, all sense of God, and all sense of tradition, he pronounces upon Europe its godlessness, in prophetic fashion, in The Waste Land. And of course, he lived through two world wars. No unending optimism for human progress might persist after that.

Far better than being a culture warrior, Elliott was a poet. Because, in my mind, a poet (like Elliott) understands when an institution, when an ideal, when a movement, is dead; when a people are dead. When Britain had given up on God. Jesus says, "Be ye born again." Before one can really share the gospel; before one can aim at social amelioration; like Elliott, one must realize, first and foremost, that this world is a waste land world, a world post-enlightenment, suffering from the enlightenment, suffering from the rejection of God. Nietzsche came, and he conquered.

Perhaps Mr. Eliot has this to say, in 2025: Do we view the world as a waste land world? And the Church, as the sole living oasis therein? As Reformed Christians squabble over arcane points of theology, the waste land grows ever starker, and ever deadlier! As we refine the elegance of our parapets.

Thank you for your thoughtful post! Elliott's line "As wind in dry grass" reminds me of Psalm 1:4

 

[Jerusalem Blade]

 

[John Nyberg]

Incredible! Is this your original work, sir? I love the allusion to Hosea 2:14 in line 10. And in the last stanza, I love the mixture of rhe bride imagery with the church militant imagery: "she is a rugged soldier, little child, fair woman." Thank you for your post!

 

[Jerusalem Blade]

Yes, John, it's mine. I'll post another tomorrow.

 

[Jerusalem Blade]

 

[py3ak]

Christina Rossetti, Sweet Death:

The sweetest blossoms die.
And so it was that, going day by day
Unto the church to praise and pray,
And crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully,
I saw how on the graves the flowers
Shed their fresh leaves in showers,
And how their perfume rose up to the sky
Before it passed away.

The youngest blossoms die.
They die and fall and nourish the rich earth
From which they lately had their birth;
Sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth by
And is as though it had not been:--
All colors turn to green;
The bright hues vanish and the odors fly,
The grass hath lasting worth.

And youth and beauty die.
So be it, O my God, Thou God of truth:
Better than beauty and than youth
Are Saints and Angels, a glad company;
And Thou, O Lord, our Rest and Ease,
Art better far than these.
Why should we shrink from our full harvest? why
Prefer to glean with Ruth?

 

[No Other Name]

The beginning of In Memoriam by Lord Alfred Tennyson (the whole thing is really long and delves into the conflict between Christianity and modern science and philosophy):

Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;


Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.


Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why,
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.


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.

 

[John Nyberg]

View attachment 11716

This is a great piece! How encouraging to contemplate the glory of God's revelation to the lowly and humble

 

[No Other Name]

Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?


Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter, weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon –
I, only I.


Yet give not o’er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.

- Christina Rosetti, Good Friday

 

[John Nyberg]

Christina Rossetti, Sweet Death:

The sweetest blossoms die.
And so it was that, going day by day
Unto the church to praise and pray,
And crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully,
I saw how on the graves the flowers
Shed their fresh leaves in showers,
And how their perfume rose up to the sky
Before it passed away.

The youngest blossoms die.
They die and fall and nourish the rich earth
From which they lately had their birth;
Sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth by
And is as though it had not been:--
All colors turn to green;
The bright hues vanish and the odors fly,
The grass hath lasting worth.

And youth and beauty die.
So be it, O my God, Thou God of truth:
Better than beauty and than youth
Are Saints and Angels, a glad company;
And Thou, O Lord, our Rest and Ease,
Art better far than these.
Why should we shrink from our full harvest? why
Prefer to glean with Ruth?

Thank you for your post and for introducing me to this poet. At my father in laws funeral the other week, philippians 1:21 was proudly displayed "to die is gain!". What a great comfort for believers!
[automerge]1737652871[/automerge]

The beginning of In Memoriam by Lord Alfred Tennyson (the whole thing is really long and delves into the conflict between Christianity and modern science and philosophy):

Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;


Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.


Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why,
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.


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.

It has been a while since I read Tennyson. Thank you for your post. I intend to read this entire piece when I get the chance. It reminds me of the Preachers search for meaning and truth in Ecclesiastes.

 

[John Nyberg]

Here is another poem from Herbert titled "judgment." I find it to be one of the most sublime expressions of Christian hope in God's free grace and mercy in Christ.

​

ALmighty Judge, how shall poore wretches brook Thy dreadfull look, Able a heart of iron to appall, When thou shalt call For ev’ry mans peculiar book? What others mean to do, I know not well, Yet I heare tell, That some will turn thee to some leaves therein So void of sinne, That they in merit shall excell. But I resolve, when thou shalt call for mine, That to decline, And thrust a Testament into thy hand: Let that be scann’d. There thou shalt finde my faults are thine.

​

 

[MatthewBall]

Geerhardus Vos spent much time in his later years writing poetry.

Here is one of his poems reflecting on the Lord's Day:

Titled “Dies Solis” (“Sunday”).

This is a Sunday which can well be called a sun day;
I have bathed both body and soul in a sea of light,
have washed off my everyday doing and knowing,
have of heavenly wine tasted and wedding food eaten,
and blessedly sat listening by the way,
along which the singing holy procession goes.

[automerge]1737662300[/automerge]
Here's another from Vos (Translated by Daniel Ragusa):

Bound is the tree in all his growing;
Sprouting and his flowers showing,
His evening and his morning glowing,

His winter sleeping, summer waking,
His silence and the sounds he’s making.

Still grounded in his mother’s place,
Confined within a tiny space;

Until one day a tragedy,
An axman swings with cruelty.

His market value lights his face,
And tears him from the earth’s embrace.

A woeful groan he then raises,
A fit of death through him races,
Down to his roots it abases.

But behold! the cry he utters,
From the pain of death he shudders,
Finished, it forever severs,

Makes for him, a state to hope in,
A wondrous new world to open.

In the woods a hidden pillar,
Now he journeys to the miller,

Who from the thickness, round and broad,
Of his large trunk cuts plank unflawed,

And for the beams of higher estate,
The right measure he must calculate.

Then onward from the miller’s yard,
Coastward goes he to the shipyard;

There the fragrant wood, like a vow,
Is built for keel and hull and bow.

Secured from wind and weather far,
Sealed with wax, baptized with tar.

The master sees him with delight,
Glide down the slope now to alight,

Like a bird over ocean blue
To his new element he flew.

Longing for the wonders at sea,
Ready to sail, restless lies he,

Tighter and tighter pulling on
The anchor that he might be gone.

It came at last the hour set,
By tugboat pulled to an outlet,

With flag and pennants high he’s free
To sail into the open sea;

Bedecked in white, his bridegroom sail,
On crested billows rides his tail,
Like were his own currents and gale;

Like every droplet in the slough
Of despond was his servant low;

Freer than the sea from bonds and bands,
Up rivers rushes he to distant lands.

You say this is a poetic device,
In real life groundless, it cannot suffice.

Believe me I know of what I sing,
A ship is also a living thing.

Lord, when death soon draws itself near,
Through trunk and branch goes his shear,

Freed from this narrow earthly space,
Let me go to a wider place;

After the escape, make of me,
A ship for Yourself graciously,

Assembled and made beautifully,
For the grand sail of eternity.

 

[John Nyberg]

Geerhardus Vos spent much time in his later years writing poetry.

Here is one of his poems reflecting on the Lord's Day:

Titled “Dies Solis” (“Sunday”).

[automerge]1737662300[/automerge]
Here's another from Vos (Translated by Daniel Ragusa):

Bound is the tree in all his growing;
Sprouting and his flowers showing,
His evening and his morning glowing,

His winter sleeping, summer waking,
His silence and the sounds he’s making.

Still grounded in his mother’s place,
Confined within a tiny space;

Until one day a tragedy,
An axman swings with cruelty.

His market value lights his face,
And tears him from the earth’s embrace.

A woeful groan he then raises,
A fit of death through him races,
Down to his roots it abases.

But behold! the cry he utters,
From the pain of death he shudders,
Finished, it forever severs,

Makes for him, a state to hope in,
A wondrous new world to open.

In the woods a hidden pillar,
Now he journeys to the miller,

Who from the thickness, round and broad,
Of his large trunk cuts plank unflawed,

And for the beams of higher estate,
The right measure he must calculate.

Then onward from the miller’s yard,
Coastward goes he to the shipyard;

There the fragrant wood, like a vow,
Is built for keel and hull and bow.

Secured from wind and weather far,
Sealed with wax, baptized with tar.

The master sees him with delight,
Glide down the slope now to alight,

Like a bird over ocean blue
To his new element he flew.

Longing for the wonders at sea,
Ready to sail, restless lies he,

Tighter and tighter pulling on
The anchor that he might be gone.

It came at last the hour set,
By tugboat pulled to an outlet,

With flag and pennants high he’s free
To sail into the open sea;

Bedecked in white, his bridegroom sail,
On crested billows rides his tail,
Like were his own currents and gale;

Like every droplet in the slough
Of despond was his servant low;

Freer than the sea from bonds and bands,
Up rivers rushes he to distant lands.

You say this is a poetic device,
In real life groundless, it cannot suffice.

Believe me I know of what I sing,
A ship is also a living thing.

Lord, when death soon draws itself near,
Through trunk and branch goes his shear,

Freed from this narrow earthly space,
Let me go to a wider place;

After the escape, make of me,
A ship for Yourself graciously,

Assembled and made beautifully,
For the grand sail of eternity.

I had no idea that he wrote poetry, thanks for the post.

 

[py3ak]

Francis Thompson:

In No Strange Land​

The kingdom of God is within you

O world invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air—
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumor of thee there?

Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!—
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.

The angels keep their ancient places—
Turn but a stone and start a wing!
'Tis ye, 'tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendored thing.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry—and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry—clinging to Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water,
Not of Genesareth, but Thames!​

If this seems to have tendencies in an unfortunate direction, think about it in context of the Psalms of creation. If our faces were not estranged, we might see God's handiwork and immanent providence more than we do.

 

[John Nyberg]

Francis Thompson:

In No Strange Land​

The kingdom of God is within you

O world invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air—
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumor of thee there?

Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!—
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.

The angels keep their ancient places—
Turn but a stone and start a wing!
'Tis ye, 'tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendored thing.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry—and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry—clinging to Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water,
Not of Genesareth, but Thames!​

If this seems to have tendencies in an unfortunate direction, think about it in context of the Psalms of creation. If our faces were not estranged, we might see God's handiwork and immanent providence more than we do.

I think all believers can, in part, sympathize with this kind of longing. In Herbert's poem "The Search" he pens this line:

"Whither, O, whither art thou fled,
My Lord, my Love?
My searches are my daily bread;
Yet never prove.

My knees pierce th' earth, mine eyes the sky;
And yet the sphere
And centre both to me deny
That thou art there."

Herbert is struggling in prayer to see God and feel his closeness. He later comes to expressions of trusting faith in God's presence with him. However, his assurance is hard fought and comes only through persistence in prayer. You fittingly mentioned the Psalms in your comment, for the Psalter is filled with such prayers of desperation and struggling faith.

 

[Stephen L Smith]

This beautiful poem by Anne Cousin is based on Samuel Rutherford's letters.

Immanuel’s Land

1. The sands of time are sinking,
The dawn of heaven breaks,
The summer morn I’ve sighed for,
The fair, sweet morn awakes:
Dark, dark hath been the midnight,
But dayspring is at hand,
And glory—glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

2. Oh! well it is forever,
Oh! well forevermore
My nest hung in no forest
Of all this death-doomed shore!
Yea, let the vain world vanish,
As from the ship the stand,
While glory—glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

3. There the Red Rose of Sharon
Unfolds its heart-most bloom.
And fills the air of Heaven
With ravishing perfume;
Oh, to behold its blossom,
While by its fragrance fann’d
Where glory—glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

4. The King there in His beauty,
Without a veil is seen:
It were a well-spent journey
Though seven deaths lay between:
The Lamb with His fair army,
Doth on Mount Zion stand;
And glory—glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

5. Oh! Christ He is the fountain,
The deep sweet well of Love!
The streams on earth I’ve tasted,
More deep I’ll drink above:
There, to an ocean fullness,
His mercy doth expand,
And glory—glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

6. E’en Anwoth was not heaven—
E’en preaching was not Christ;
And in my sea-beat prison
My Lord and I held tryst:
And aye my murkiest storm-cloud
Was by a rainbow spann’d,
Caught from the glory dwelling
In Immanuel’s land.

7. But that He built a heaven
Of His surpassing love,
A little New Jerus’lem,
Like to the one above,—
“Lord, take me o’er the water,”
Had been my loud demand,
“Take me to love’s own country,
Unto Immanuel’s land.”

8. But flowers need night’s cool darkness,
The moonlight and the dew;
So Christ, from one who loved it,
His shining oft withdrew;
And then, for cause of absence,
My troubled soul I scann’d—
But glory, shadeless, shineth
In Immanuel’s land.

9. The little birds of Anwoth
I used to count them blest,—
Now, beside happier alters
I go to built my nest:
O’er these there broods no silence,
No graves around them stand,
For glory, deathless, dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

10. Fair Anwoth by the Solway,
To me thou still art dear!
E’en from the verge of Heaven
I drop for thee a tear.
Oh! if one soul from Anwoth
Meet me at God’s right hand,
My Heaven will be two Heavens,
In Immanuel’s land!

11. I’ve wrestled on towards Heaven,
‘Ganst storm, and wind, and tide;—
Now, like a weary traveler,
That leaneth on his guide,
Amid the shades of evening,
While sinks life’s ling’ring sand,
I hail the glory dawning
From Immanuel’s land.

12. Deep waters cross’d life’s pathway,
The hedge of thorns was sharp;
Now these lie all behind me,—
Oh, for a well-tuned harp!
Oh, to join Hallelujah
With yon triumphant band,
Who sing where glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land!

13. With mercy and with judgment
My web of time He wove,
And aye the dews of sorrow
Were lustered with His love!
I’ll bless the hand that guided,
I’ll bless the heart that plann’d,
When throned where glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

14. Soon shall the cup of glory
Wash down earth’s bitterest woes,
Soon shall the desert brier
Break into Eden’s rose:
The curse shall change to blessing–
The name on earth that’s bann’d,
Be graven on the white stone
In Immanuel’s land.

15. Oh! I am my Beloved’s,
And my Beloved’s mine!
He brings a poor vile sinner
Into His “house of wine:”
I stand upon His merit,
I know no other stand,
Not e’en where glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

16. I shall sleep sound in Jesus,
Fill’d with His likeness rise,
To live and to adore Him,
To see Him with these eyes:
‘Tween me and resurrection
But Paradise doth stand;
Then—then for glory dwelling
In Immanuel’s land!

17. The bride eyes not her garment,
But her dear Bridegroom’s face;
I will not gaze at glory,
But on my King of Grace—
Not at the crown He giveth,
But on His pierced hand:
The Lamb is all the glory
Of Immanuel’s land.

18. I have borne scorn and hatred,
I have borne wrong and shame,
Earth’s proud ones have reproach’d me,
For Christ’s thrice blessed name:
Where God His seal set fairest
They’ve stamp’d their foulest brand;
But judgment shines like noonday
In Immanuel’s land.

19. They’ve summoned me before them,
But there I may not come,—
My Lord says, “Come up hither,”
My Lord says, “Welcome home!
My King now at His white throne,
My presence doth command,
Where glory—glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

“The Sands of Time Are Sinking”
Words based on the Letters of Samuel Rutherford (1600-1661)

 

[John Nyberg]

This beautiful poem by Anne Cousin is based on Samuel Rutherford's letters.

Immanuel’s Land

1. The sands of time are sinking,
The dawn of heaven breaks,
The summer morn I’ve sighed for,
The fair, sweet morn awakes:
Dark, dark hath been the midnight,
But dayspring is at hand,
And glory—glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

2. Oh! well it is forever,
Oh! well forevermore
My nest hung in no forest
Of all this death-doomed shore!
Yea, let the vain world vanish,
As from the ship the stand,
While glory—glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

3. There the Red Rose of Sharon
Unfolds its heart-most bloom.
And fills the air of Heaven
With ravishing perfume;
Oh, to behold its blossom,
While by its fragrance fann’d
Where glory—glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

4. The King there in His beauty,
Without a veil is seen:
It were a well-spent journey
Though seven deaths lay between:
The Lamb with His fair army,
Doth on Mount Zion stand;
And glory—glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

5. Oh! Christ He is the fountain,
The deep sweet well of Love!
The streams on earth I’ve tasted,
More deep I’ll drink above:
There, to an ocean fullness,
His mercy doth expand,
And glory—glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

6. E’en Anwoth was not heaven—
E’en preaching was not Christ;
And in my sea-beat prison
My Lord and I held tryst:
And aye my murkiest storm-cloud
Was by a rainbow spann’d,
Caught from the glory dwelling
In Immanuel’s land.

7. But that He built a heaven
Of His surpassing love,
A little New Jerus’lem,
Like to the one above,—
“Lord, take me o’er the water,”
Had been my loud demand,
“Take me to love’s own country,
Unto Immanuel’s land.”

8. But flowers need night’s cool darkness,
The moonlight and the dew;
So Christ, from one who loved it,
His shining oft withdrew;
And then, for cause of absence,
My troubled soul I scann’d—
But glory, shadeless, shineth
In Immanuel’s land.

9. The little birds of Anwoth
I used to count them blest,—
Now, beside happier alters
I go to built my nest:
O’er these there broods no silence,
No graves around them stand,
For glory, deathless, dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

10. Fair Anwoth by the Solway,
To me thou still art dear!
E’en from the verge of Heaven
I drop for thee a tear.
Oh! if one soul from Anwoth
Meet me at God’s right hand,
My Heaven will be two Heavens,
In Immanuel’s land!

11. I’ve wrestled on towards Heaven,
‘Ganst storm, and wind, and tide;—
Now, like a weary traveler,
That leaneth on his guide,
Amid the shades of evening,
While sinks life’s ling’ring sand,
I hail the glory dawning
From Immanuel’s land.

12. Deep waters cross’d life’s pathway,
The hedge of thorns was sharp;
Now these lie all behind me,—
Oh, for a well-tuned harp!
Oh, to join Hallelujah
With yon triumphant band,
Who sing where glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land!

13. With mercy and with judgment
My web of time He wove,
And aye the dews of sorrow
Were lustered with His love!
I’ll bless the hand that guided,
I’ll bless the heart that plann’d,
When throned where glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

14. Soon shall the cup of glory
Wash down earth’s bitterest woes,
Soon shall the desert brier
Break into Eden’s rose:
The curse shall change to blessing–
The name on earth that’s bann’d,
Be graven on the white stone
In Immanuel’s land.

15. Oh! I am my Beloved’s,
And my Beloved’s mine!
He brings a poor vile sinner
Into His “house of wine:”
I stand upon His merit,
I know no other stand,
Not e’en where glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

16. I shall sleep sound in Jesus,
Fill’d with His likeness rise,
To live and to adore Him,
To see Him with these eyes:
‘Tween me and resurrection
But Paradise doth stand;
Then—then for glory dwelling
In Immanuel’s land!

17. The bride eyes not her garment,
But her dear Bridegroom’s face;
I will not gaze at glory,
But on my King of Grace—
Not at the crown He giveth,
But on His pierced hand:
The Lamb is all the glory
Of Immanuel’s land.

18. I have borne scorn and hatred,
I have borne wrong and shame,
Earth’s proud ones have reproach’d me,
For Christ’s thrice blessed name:
Where God His seal set fairest
They’ve stamp’d their foulest brand;
But judgment shines like noonday
In Immanuel’s land.

19. They’ve summoned me before them,
But there I may not come,—
My Lord says, “Come up hither,”
My Lord says, “Welcome home!
My King now at His white throne,
My presence doth command,
Where glory—glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.

“The Sands of Time Are Sinking”
Words based on the Letters of Samuel Rutherford (1600-1661)

What an incredible poem! This is an excellent example of Christian hope expressed through verse. It is so full of biblical imagery and allusion and fair proclamations of faith. Thank you for posting!

 

[Burke Devlin]

George MacDonald (Scottish) has some wonderful poems. Here is one of my favorites

 

[John Nyberg]

George MacDonald (Scottish) has some wonderful poems. Here is one of my favorites

George Macdonald is excellent! His book Phantastes has been very beneficial to me personally. Thanks for sharing!

 

[Burke Devlin]

Another great poem by MacDonald:

 

[py3ak]

I think all believers can, in part, sympathize with this kind of longing. In Herbert's poem "The Search" he pens this line:

"Whither, O, whither art thou fled,
My Lord, my Love?
My searches are my daily bread;
Yet never prove.

My knees pierce th' earth, mine eyes the sky;
And yet the sphere
And centre both to me deny
That thou art there."

Herbert is struggling in prayer to see God and feel his closeness. He later comes to expressions of trusting faith in God's presence with him. However, his assurance is hard fought and comes only through persistence in prayer. You fittingly mentioned the Psalms in your comment, for the Psalter is filled with such prayers of desperation and struggling faith.

The message that the Lord descends to us in our more than Egyptian oppression and spiritual darkness is indeed a wonderful comfort.

Here is Thomas Banks, reflecting on Hosea:

Remain with me. I do not choose you less
For knowing long your wiles and waywardness.

Be rooted with me, planted side by side,
Though blighted fruit and thorns be multiplied.

Rest with me, while the desert wastes increase,
The garden fails, the vine and fig tree cease:

Do not depart, although shame and distress
Strip from you everything save barrenness:

The bitter water sometime may grow sweet,
And mercy flower round these wounded feet.

 

[John Nyberg]

"They looking back, all th' eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
Waved over by that flaming brand, the gate
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms:
Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped soon;
The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:
They hand in hand with wand'ring steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way."

-John Milton, Paradise Lost

 

[Jerusalem Blade]

 

[John Nyberg]

View attachment 11722

There is a very Davidic theme to this poem that I really enjoy. The first stanzas seems to me to be a modern expression of Psalm 2. Stanza 4 lines 1 and 2 really caught my attention: "he had the right to suffer..." What an incredible thought to know that he chose to do so!

 

[John Nyberg]

If This Be All
-by Anne Bronte

“O GOD! if this indeed be all
That Life can show to me;
If on my aching brow may fall
No freshening dew from Thee, –
If with no brighter light than this
The lamp of hope may glow,
And I may only dream of bliss,
And wake to weary woe;
If friendship’s solace must decay,
When other joys are gone,
And love must keep so far away,
While I go wandering on, –
Wandering and toiling without gain,
The slave of others’ will,
With constant care, and frequent pain,
Despised, forgotten still;
Grieving to look on vice and sin,
Yet powerless to quell
The silent current from within,
The outward torrent’s swell:
While all the good I would impart,
The feelings I would share,
Are driven backward to my heart,
And turned to wormwood, there;
If clouds must ever keep from sight
The glories of the Sun,
And I must suffer Winter’s blight,
Ere Summer is begun;
If Life must be so full of care,
Then call me soon to Thee;
Or give me strength enough to bear
My load of misery.”

We are going through Ecclesiastes at my church and I found this poem very similar in sentiment to Solomon's wisdom. Ecclesiastes 2:17

 

[John Nyberg]

I really appreciate everyone's contributions to this thread. It was very encouraging to read these great pieces of Christian verse. Since I began the thread with George Herbert, let me also end my contributions with him as well. This is by far his most famous English poem. It is titled Love (3).


LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack’d anything.

‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’
Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on Thee.’
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
‘Who made the eyes but I?’

‘Truth, Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.’
‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’
‘My dear, then I will serve.’
‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
So I did sit and eat.

 

[Stephen L Smith]

I have been reflecting on this poem by Adelaide Procter. Apparently Procter was one of Queen Victoria's favourite poets.

My God, I thank Thee, who hast made
The earth so bright;
So full of splendor and of joy,
Beauty and light,
So many glorious things are here,
Noble and right.

I thank Thee, too, that Thou hast made
Joy to abound;
So many gentle thoughts and deeds
Circling us round;
That in the darkest spot of earth
Some love is found.

I thank Thee, that all our joy
Is touched with pain;
That shadows fall on brightest hours,
That thorns remain;
So that earth's bliss may be our guide,
And not our chain.

I thank thee, Lord, that thou hast kept
The best in store;
We have enough, yet not too much,
To long for more;
A yearning for a deeper peace
Not known before.

I thank thee, Lord, that here our souls,
Though amply blest,
Can never find, although they seek,
A perfect rest;
Nor ever shall, until they lean
On Jesus' breast.

 

[py3ak]

Here are a couple of entries from lesser-known poets who are still alive.

Kilby Austin
Akeldama

There is a field in Judah,
a field that belonged to a potter,
and they bought it for thirty pieces of silver,
the price of the blood of the Lamb.
There is a field in Judah,
and they call it Akeldama,
and they made it a burial place for the stranger,
bought with the blood of the Lamb.
And I was a stranger to God and his people,
a stranger to Abraham's covenant kin;
oh, I was a stranger, till one day in April
the Lamb of God died for to pay for my sin.
There is a field in Judah,
bought with the price of betrayal
on the day when the clay got revenge on the potter,
and the Shepherd was slain like a lamb.
And I was a stranger to God and his people,
a stranger to Abraham's covenant kin;
oh, I was a stranger, till one day in April
the Lamb of God died for to pay for my sin.
So hey, when I go down to die,
lay me in Akeldama!
Old Sheol won't see my soul:
I'll stop in Akeldama.
The Lamb of God, in Judah's field,
has made a resting place for me.
'Cause I was a stranger to God and his people,
a stranger to Abraham's covenant kin;
yeah, I was a stranger, till that day in April
when the Lamb of God died...
and gathered me in.

Isabel Chenot
Child-heart
“For You are our Father though Abraham does not know us” (Isaiah 63:16).

The child-heart in me cries
from long ago
when I was broken to a legacy
of sorrow.

The child-heart in me cries
afraid of nights.
With unhushed nightmares, unkissed hurts,
the grown-up fights.

The child-heart in me cries
but no one hears,
or if they do — no arms can gather in
my clench-fist years.

The child-heart in me cries.
Much of me’s false,
but my last sound
will be the sobbing of my pulse.

The child-heart in me cries
and cries and cries
its undeterred
first trauma, heartache, hunger-word:

Abba.

Abba.

Abba.