"bethlem" poems
Sweet, harmless lives! (on whose holy leisure
Waits innocence and pleasure),
Whose leaders to those pastures, and clear springs,
Were patriarchs, saints, and kings,
How happened it that in the dead of night
You only saw true light,
While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay
Without one thought of day?
Was it because those first and blessed swains
Were pilgrims on those plains
When they received the promise, for which now
’Twas there first shown to you?
’Tis true, He loves that dust whereon they go
That serve Him here below,
And therefore might for memory of those
His love there first disclose;
But wretched Salem, once His love, must now
No voice, nor vision know,
Her stately piles with all their height and pride
Now languished and died,
And Bethlem’s humble cotes above them stepped
While all her seers slept;
Her cedar, fir, hewed stones and gold were all
Polluted through their fall,
And those once sacred mansions were now
Mere emptiness and show;
This made the angel call at reeds and thatch,
Yet where the shepherds watch,
And God’s own lodging (though He could not lack)
To be a common rack;
No costly pride, no soft-clothed luxury
In those thin cells could lie,
Each stirring wind and storm blew through their cots
Which never harbored plots,
Only content, and love, and humble joys
Lived there without all noise,
Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day
Did in their bosoms play,
As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook,
What springs or shades to look,
But that was all; and now with gladsome care
They for the town prepare,
They leave their flock, and in a busy talk
All towards Bethlem walk
To see their souls’ Great Shepherd, Who was come
To bring all stragglers home,
Where now they find Him out, and taught before
That Lamb of God adore,
That Lamb whose days great kings and prophets wished
And longed to see, but missed.
The first light they beheld was bright and gay
And turned their night to day,
But to this later light they saw in Him,
Their day was dark, and dim.
2.3k
Peace? and to all the world? sure, One
And He the Prince of Peace, hath none.
He travels to be born, and then
Is born to travel more again.
Poor Galilee! thou canst not be
The place for His nativity.
His restless mother’s called away,
And not delivered till she pay.
A tax? ’tis so still! we can see
The church thrive in her misery;
And like her Head at Bethlem, rise
When she, oppressed with troubles, lies.
Rise? should all fall, we cannot be
In more extremities than He.
Great Type of passions! come what will,
Thy grief exceeds all copies still.
Thou cam’st from heaven to earth, that we
Might go from earth to heaven with Thee.
And though Thou foundest no welcome here,
Thou didst provide us mansions there.
A stable was Thy court, and when
Men turned to beasts, beasts would be men.
They were Thy courtiers, others none;
And their poor manger was Thy throne.
No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold,
Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold.
No rockers waited on Thy birth,
No cradles stirred, nor songs of mirth;
But her chaste lap and sacred breast
Which lodged Thee first did give Thee rest.
But stay: what light is that doth stream,
And drop here in a gilded beam?
It is Thy star runs page, and brings
Thy tributary Eastern kings.
Lord! grant some light to us, that we
May with them find the way to Thee.
Behold what mists eclipse the day:
How dark it is! shed down one ray
To guide us out of this sad night,
And say once more, “Let there be light.”
2.2k
..and off they went
those who'd spend time, those who grabbed hold off and held onto the lifeline, but
in the palm of a hand where mountains begin, grow and turn back into sand
a lifeline
means nothing.
If I sink so be it, I shall hear the soft calls of the siren instead of voices so full of **** as to make Bethlem seem normal.
I have wasted much time drinking dregs with bald beggars, supping cider beside human waste and now I taste fresh air, for the first time I'm aware just how strong strong can be.
This bond that you're so fond of is but the link that links into the way that you think and you think that you know it all.
You may hold all the cards in your hand but the next call or the next time is mine.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
Unrelenting
they came to be
words
cementing lunacy
and talismans
for all to see
this madness
that's afflicting me.
It's a dictionary to dine upon
one more sedation
then I'm gone,all
quiet in the infirmary with the
madness that's afflicting me.
The doctor said I'm doing well,but
what the hell do doctors know
with their fake degrees and sky high fees
no minimum,no need for glum
just take the happy pill,ooh
what a thrill
***** me down please,Jack and Jill
and leave this hill alone.
They won't let me home, and say
I've got to stay
until they reach a moratorium and
then I'll end up down
the sanatorium.
More than Bethlem,
less than some men and
some men are less.
I profess to know which way this wind will blow and
like the weather vane
I'll spin again,I suppose
eventually I'll be insane.
A self fulfilling prophecy,or
just reinvented lunacy,
all the same to me,
I'll keep taking medication,
pray hard and wait for some salvation.
And then the graveyard waits for me,and for
other lunatics,
I see them lining up against the fence.
The fence that's no defence.
In the words which play with me,
lunacy or not,
it seems
these words are all I've got,them and
the doc
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
The pen and the page become the cage but
I am in a rush and then
I am stilled in the still night and
the quill is the only light, from which spills out
the tightness in my chest.
Words unlit,unwrit are the **** on the street,the darkness
I meet in the cage and yet
I can caress with the pen the page,make love as the ink makes love
with each link of the letters,I think on this thought when I have been brought
to the edge of all reason,
where every season I see is the cage that locks me into writing and reading,cutting my wrists to find I am bleeding more ink,leading me on,
be still or be gone and still I write on,at the end of the alphabet I wonder if I will get a gold star or
just another bar to add to the other bars on
this cage.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
But......
what if they took the wrong man down, it was dark, they were scared.
what if,
it wasn't the son of Man but some thieving alley rat that they wrapped in white in the deadness of night,
what if,
we've been praying for lifetimes to the thief ridden bloodline of a merchant or sailor,
call the jailer now
put me in Bethlem
send me to Bedlam.
But
what if it was true.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 7:52 AM UTC