"gethsemane" poems - Hello Poetry

"gethsemane" poems

I wandered slowly Through sidewalk cracks and broken pavements Finding my own piece of Gethsemane So that people would know I exist I was a ghost To eyes that didn't even care to look A boring book To minds that didn't even bother to read A blank canvas To those who didn't even try to understand That I was somebody All of them only saw me as an empty bottle Not knowing I just want to be filled with silence Because silence is a beautiful symphony And I am the conductor I am a human being capable of owning a soul and Live through a thousand lifetimes I was never the boring book In fact, I am the author Writing my own story on Life's pages I am an artist A dreamer who can create masterpieces even on A blank canvas such as myself But most of all, I am an introvert A carapace even I consider a home Because it makes me who I am and Not because of what you say I am

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May 27, 2015

May 27, 2015 at 8:04 AM UTC

I wandered slowly Through sidewalk cracks and broken pavements Finding my own piece of Gethsemane So that people would know I exist I was a ghost To eyes that didn't even care to look A boring book To minds that didn't even bother to read A blank canvas To those who didn't even try to understand That I was somebody All of them only saw me as an empty bottle Not knowing I just want to be filled with silence Because silence is a beautiful symphony And I am the conductor I am a human being capable of owning a soul and Live through a thousand lifetimes I was never the boring book In fact, I am the author Writing my own story on Life's pages I am an artist A dreamer who can create masterpieces even on A blank canvas such as myself But most of all, I am an introvert A carapace even I consider a home Because it makes me who I am and Not because of what you say I am

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148 All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with **** The little cage of “Currer Bell” In quiet “Haworth” laid. Gathered from many wanderings— Gethsemane can tell Thro’ what transporting anguish She reached the Asphodel! Soft falls the sounds of Eden Upon her puzzled ear— Oh what an afternoon for Heaven, When “Bronte” entered there!

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6.3k

Emily Dickinson

All overgrown by cunning moss

148 All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with **** The little cage of “Currer Bell” In quiet “Haworth” laid. Gathered from many wanderings— Gethsemane can tell Thro’ what transporting anguish She reached the Asphodel! Soft falls the sounds of Eden Upon her puzzled ear— Oh what an afternoon for Heaven, When “Bronte” entered there!

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553 One Crucifixion is recorded—only— How many be Is not affirmed of Mathematics— Or History— One Calvary—exhibited to Stranger— As many be As persons—or Peninsulas— Gethsemane— Is but a Province—in the Being’s Centre— Judea— For Journey—or Crusade’s Achieving— Too near— Our Lord—indeed—made Compound Witness— And yet— There’s newer—nearer Crucifixion Than That—

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6.2k

Emily Dickinson

One Crucifixion is recorded—only

553 One Crucifixion is recorded—only— How many be Is not affirmed of Mathematics— Or History— One Calvary—exhibited to Stranger— As many be As persons—or Peninsulas— Gethsemane— Is but a Province—in the Being’s Centre— Judea— For Journey—or Crusade’s Achieving— Too near— Our Lord—indeed—made Compound Witness— And yet— There’s newer—nearer Crucifixion Than That—

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Many a miner has gone into the deep pit to receive the dust of a kiss, an ore-cell. He has gone with his lamp full of mole eyes deep deep and has brought forth Jesus at Gethsemane. Body of moss, body of glass, body of peat, how sharp you lie, emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea, coal, dark mother, brood mother, let the sea birds bring you into our lives as from a distant island, heavy as death.

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4.8k

The Fury Of Jewels And Coal

Many a miner has gone into the deep pit to receive the dust of a kiss, an ore-cell. He has gone with his lamp full of mole eyes deep deep and has brought forth Jesus at Gethsemane. Body of moss, body of glass, body of peat, how sharp you lie, emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea, coal, dark mother, brood mother, let the sea birds bring you into our lives as from a distant island, heavy as death.

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The First Sorrowful Mystery: The Agony in the Garden Shortly before his death, Jesus goes to the garden to pray for grace and strength. He tells his disciples "Watch and Pray" Jesus enters into prayer so deeply that his sweat is as drops of blood mixing on the ground with his tears. Even in the great darknss and desolation, he finds strength to say: "Let this cup pass before me. But not my will, but as you will it Father." Jesus tells us as he told his disciples "Watch and Pray". It sounds like a pretty simple task, but it's hard. In the midst of the darkness and despair, Jesus found strength and grace in prayer to his Father. In our darkest times, we can also call on our Father in heaven to sustain us. Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane was as the Garden of Eden after the sin of Adam and Eve. Blood was used to cover sin and wash it away. The blood, sweat and tears in the garden are a reminder of our fallen state as well as an example of the Eucharist with blood and water. We Pray: Jesus, help us to remember that whatever we go through in life, even and especially in our darkest times, remind us of the strength and grace we receive from our Heavenly Father. Help us also remember of your great love for us in your suffering and agony. Even when we fail, when we sin, when we turn away, you are with us. You love us, you forgive us, you run out to us and take us back. You counted up the cost and we are worth it. It cost everything and you paid the price so we wouldn't have to. Nothing we could ever do could amount to what you gave The best I can do is offer my life for you and my neighbor and try to die to myself daily. I am truly and eternally grateful, for by your amazing grace, I have the opportunity to be with you for all eternity. Thank you Jesus!

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Feb 5, 2017

Feb 5, 2017 at 3:40 PM UTC

Reflections on the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Most Holy Rosary

The First Sorrowful Mystery: The Agony in the Garden Shortly before his death, Jesus goes to the garden to pray for grace and strength. He tells his disciples "Watch and Pray" Jesus enters into prayer so deeply that his sweat is as drops of blood mixing on the ground with his tears. Even in the great darknss and desolation, he finds strength to say: "Let this cup pass before me. But not my will, but as you will it Father." Jesus tells us as he told his disciples "Watch and Pray". It sounds like a pretty simple task, but it's hard. In the midst of the darkness and despair, Jesus found strength and grace in prayer to his Father. In our darkest times, we can also call on our Father in heaven to sustain us. Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane was as the Garden of Eden after the sin of Adam and Eve. Blood was used to cover sin and wash it away. The blood, sweat and tears in the garden are a reminder of our fallen state as well as an example of the Eucharist with blood and water. We Pray: Jesus, help us to remember that whatever we go through in life, even and especially in our darkest times, remind us of the strength and grace we receive from our Heavenly Father. Help us also remember of your great love for us in your suffering and agony. Even when we fail, when we sin, when we turn away, you are with us. You love us, you forgive us, you run out to us and take us back. You counted up the cost and we are worth it. It cost everything and you paid the price so we wouldn't have to. Nothing we could ever do could amount to what you gave The best I can do is offer my life for you and my neighbor and try to die to myself daily. I am truly and eternally grateful, for by your amazing grace, I have the opportunity to be with you for all eternity. Thank you Jesus!

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1432 Spurn the temerity— Rashness of Calvary— Gay were Gethsemane Knew we of Thee—

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3.2k

Emily Dickinson

Spurn the temerity—

1432 Spurn the temerity— Rashness of Calvary— Gay were Gethsemane Knew we of Thee—

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313 I should have been too glad, I see— Too lifted—for the scant degree Of Life’s penurious Round— My little Circuit would have shamed This new Circumference—have blamed— The homelier time behind. I should have been too saved—I see— Too rescued—Fear too dim to me That I could spell the Prayer I knew so perfect—yesterday— That Scalding One—Sabachthani— Recited fluent—here— Earth would have been too much—I see— And Heaven—not enough for me— I should have had the Joy Without the Fear—to justify— The Palm—without the Calvary— So Savior—Crucify— Defeat—whets Victory—they say— The Reefs—in old Gethsemane— Endear the Coast—beyond! ’Tis Beggars—Banquets—can define— ’Tis Parching—vitalizes Wine— “Faith” bleats—to understand!

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2.5k

Emily Dickinson

I should have been too glad, I see

313 I should have been too glad, I see— Too lifted—for the scant degree Of Life’s penurious Round— My little Circuit would have shamed This new Circumference—have blamed— The homelier time behind. I should have been too saved—I see— Too rescued—Fear too dim to me That I could spell the Prayer I knew so perfect—yesterday— That Scalding One—Sabachthani— Recited fluent—here— Earth would have been too much—I see— And Heaven—not enough for me— I should have had the Joy Without the Fear—to justify— The Palm—without the Calvary— So Savior—Crucify— Defeat—whets Victory—they say— The Reefs—in old Gethsemane— Endear the Coast—beyond! ’Tis Beggars—Banquets—can define— ’Tis Parching—vitalizes Wine— “Faith” bleats—to understand!

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Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length—at length—after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength— O spells more sure than e’er Judaean king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones! But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades— These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts— These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze— These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin— These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all— All of the famed, and the colossal left By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me? “Not all”—the Echoes answer me—”not all! Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, As melody from Memnon to the Sun. We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule With a despotic sway all giant minds. We are not impotent—we pallid stones. Not all our power is gone—not all our fame— Not all the magic of our high renown— Not all the wonder that encircles us— Not all the mysteries that in us lie— Not all the memories that hang upon And cling around about us as a garment, Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”

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2.5k

Edgar Allan Poe

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length—at length—after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength— O spells more sure than e’er Judaean king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones! But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades— These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts— These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze— These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin— These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all— All of the famed, and the colossal left By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me? “Not all”—the Echoes answer me—”not all! Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, As melody from Memnon to the Sun. We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule With a despotic sway all giant minds. We are not impotent—we pallid stones. Not all our power is gone—not all our fame— Not all the magic of our high renown— Not all the wonder that encircles us— Not all the mysteries that in us lie— Not all the memories that hang upon And cling around about us as a garment, Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”

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There is a mirror image but does it still look like you? Do you stand before the altar of your bathroom sink and whisper, "нет, but not yet" There isn't time to pause to think to wonder. Is there a ghost in this machine? Is there a need to put a notion behind the gears of our universal, cosmic meme? And were we to drown, weighed down by hanging lines and albatroses, the thousand stupid ways that we try to prove our opinion matters, ********* Hear me! Look my way! We fade to nothing, ashes in pots on mantle places, dry bones in wet dirt. We are all good people, bound for modest graves. Undone by ambition. "Да, that is always the way" We are small men, good in our minutes a day. We are Tolstoy in passing, In a Gethsemane way.

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Mar 25, 2013

Mar 25, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC

Tolstoy in passing

There is a mirror image but does it still look like you? Do you stand before the altar of your bathroom sink and whisper, "нет, but not yet" There isn't time to pause to think to wonder. Is there a ghost in this machine? Is there a need to put a notion behind the gears of our universal, cosmic meme? And were we to drown, weighed down by hanging lines and albatroses, the thousand stupid ways that we try to prove our opinion matters, ********* Hear me! Look my way! We fade to nothing, ashes in pots on mantle places, dry bones in wet dirt. We are all good people, bound for modest graves. Undone by ambition. "Да, that is always the way" We are small men, good in our minutes a day. We are Tolstoy in passing, In a Gethsemane way.

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If the Tiber floods and the Nile fails to If the overflowing mouth of Tamesis runs dry If the weeping willow withers as the blackthorn breaks And the regal golden eagle fails to climb in the sky If the dried-up land yields a drought so parching That the overarching urge is to drink yourself drowed If the Dead Sea waters lose their saline flotation And the carrion-grabbing vultures wheel in from miles around Then Gethsemane's gates will crack open just a little And the flowers of the garden will give off a sour scent As their brazen roots recall the night when they were fed with blood Dripping softly on the hallowed ground of dying man's lament If the water rises slowly and yet still without abating If it swallows up the chariots of sun and man and steed If the kings step out and stumble to the grave, their destination Will be broken, bold and cheerless: will be harrowing indeed.

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Jun 23, 2015

Jun 23, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC

Nights of Gethsemane

If the Tiber floods and the Nile fails to If the overflowing mouth of Tamesis runs dry If the weeping willow withers as the blackthorn breaks And the regal golden eagle fails to climb in the sky If the dried-up land yields a drought so parching That the overarching urge is to drink yourself drowed If the Dead Sea waters lose their saline flotation And the carrion-grabbing vultures wheel in from miles around Then Gethsemane's gates will crack open just a little And the flowers of the garden will give off a sour scent As their brazen roots recall the night when they were fed with blood Dripping softly on the hallowed ground of dying man's lament If the water rises slowly and yet still without abating If it swallows up the chariots of sun and man and steed If the kings step out and stumble to the grave, their destination Will be broken, bold and cheerless: will be harrowing indeed.

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Oh, here the air is sweet and still, And soft’s the grass to lie on; And far away’s the little hill They took for Christ to die on. And there’s a hill across the brook, And down the brook’s another; But, oh, the little hill they took,— I think I am its mother! The moon that saw Gethsemane, I watch it rise and set: It has so many things to see, They help it to forget. But little hills that sit at home So many hundred years, Remember Greece, remember Rome, Remember Mary’s tears. And far away in Palestine, Sadder than any other, Grieves still the hill that I call mine,— I think I am its mother!

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2.4k

Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Little Hill

Oh, here the air is sweet and still, And soft’s the grass to lie on; And far away’s the little hill They took for Christ to die on. And there’s a hill across the brook, And down the brook’s another; But, oh, the little hill they took,— I think I am its mother! The moon that saw Gethsemane, I watch it rise and set: It has so many things to see, They help it to forget. But little hills that sit at home So many hundred years, Remember Greece, remember Rome, Remember Mary’s tears. And far away in Palestine, Sadder than any other, Grieves still the hill that I call mine,— I think I am its mother!

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If I had to ask you for something before it happens, I'd probably ask for a kiss. Something To ease the pain. A spark of warmth Out here. The garden is cold. The night is cold it's all Cold. So please don't let me go, Alone and cold. Or Or would it just make it worse? Maybe the kiss Would be colder than the night air that mocks me Now. Maybe it's a bitter token, One final joke: You, my friend, My best friend, selling me with a kiss Goodbye. Alone. So alone here. While others sleep carelessly, I wait All by myself. I wait for you to Finally come along and end this. You have to know I love you. So please come back soon, kiss or No kiss. It's so cold, I'm so tired, and I can't be Alone anymore. please

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Nov 24, 2013

Nov 24, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC

A Letter Found in the Garden of Gethsemane From a Nazarene to (His Best Friend) Judas

If I had to ask you for something before it happens, I'd probably ask for a kiss. Something To ease the pain. A spark of warmth Out here. The garden is cold. The night is cold it's all Cold. So please don't let me go, Alone and cold. Or Or would it just make it worse? Maybe the kiss Would be colder than the night air that mocks me Now. Maybe it's a bitter token, One final joke: You, my friend, My best friend, selling me with a kiss Goodbye. Alone. So alone here. While others sleep carelessly, I wait All by myself. I wait for you to Finally come along and end this. You have to know I love you. So please come back soon, kiss or No kiss. It's so cold, I'm so tired, and I can't be Alone anymore. please

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Jesus on the Cross is a gory picture Bleeding, Crying, Despairing Not exactly a God-like image one would imagine This week is holy the Christians claim leading to the death and eventual rise of their great Savior Is redemption then the answer to despair? The Bible says the gruesome death was predestined Yet it seems Jesus did for a moment doubt and plead in Gethsemane But on the Cross while bleeding and suffocating He prayed for the neighbors' sins to be forgiven Such is love, the Bible claims I do not believe it to be so, 'coz i still sin coz i still hate. If i believed this Love, then i would not hurt my brother If i believed in Redemption, then i would not begrudge my sister If i believed in the hefty price He paid, I would never let hate linger I would live a life of love, joy and peace and belief in the holy Spirit, Son, and Father. But i do hurt, i do begrudge, i do hate and i do not believe!

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Mar 24, 2013

Mar 24, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC

Jesus on the Cross

Jesus on the Cross is a gory picture Bleeding, Crying, Despairing Not exactly a God-like image one would imagine This week is holy the Christians claim leading to the death and eventual rise of their great Savior Is redemption then the answer to despair? The Bible says the gruesome death was predestined Yet it seems Jesus did for a moment doubt and plead in Gethsemane But on the Cross while bleeding and suffocating He prayed for the neighbors' sins to be forgiven Such is love, the Bible claims I do not believe it to be so, 'coz i still sin coz i still hate. If i believed this Love, then i would not hurt my brother If i believed in Redemption, then i would not begrudge my sister If i believed in the hefty price He paid, I would never let hate linger I would live a life of love, joy and peace and belief in the holy Spirit, Son, and Father. But i do hurt, i do begrudge, i do hate and i do not believe!

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Blood stains and the trains roll on over the dead until they're buried, and gone were the fantasies of castles and queens gone were the happy dreams. Torture and reams of confessions the Devil possesses the means, no happy dreams, no castles or queens, blood stains and the trains roll on.

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Jan 26, 2015

Jan 26, 2015 at 1:27 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

The gardeners of Gethsemane

Blood stains and the trains roll on over the dead until they're buried, and gone were the fantasies of castles and queens gone were the happy dreams. Torture and reams of confessions the Devil possesses the means, no happy dreams, no castles or queens, blood stains and the trains roll on.

Continue reading...

In the first two watches of dark Gethsemane while Y'shua prayed for us His lamps went out and so He roused them Encouraged vigilance Again they succumbed On the third watch He just let them sleep and see them slumber still snoring through the final watch... the watch whose number calls forth Meshiakh Those who've come to take Him away are at the gate yet still the mammon mesmer blisses on

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Oct 4, 2010

Oct 4, 2010 at 4:24 AM UTC

The Nightwatchmen Dream

In the first two watches of dark Gethsemane while Y'shua prayed for us His lamps went out and so He roused them Encouraged vigilance Again they succumbed On the third watch He just let them sleep and see them slumber still snoring through the final watch... the watch whose number calls forth Meshiakh Those who've come to take Him away are at the gate yet still the mammon mesmer blisses on

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I’m Oxfam clothed and head full of henna, he’s Age Concern dressed for less than a tenner. Does this make us rivals or more compatible? Anything’s possible now I’m out of hospital, picking his path oblivious to obstacles, catching him in an unguarded interval; he’s too hospitable to swerve my tentacles and I too intent on the prey. “What’s with the titfer?” I bubble up giggly, kissing his cheek and trying his trilby, holding his eyes – why should I feel guilty? If he’ll play Jesus lurking in Gethsemane then I’ll be Judas flirting with the enemy. Don’t say betrayal and the double agent, I’m just a female at my play station. He used to be nurse and I the patient, now we negotiate new relations. Aspiring to more of an equal footing I’ve climbed too high and abandoned hoodies, the dreary woollies, sackcloth and ashes, the words that stuck to my tongue like glue. Between heavy make-up and credit crashes I talk too naughty and hug too warmly – he must take his turn to be poorly, his turn to breathe in blue. In minutes the mood will be mellowing: I shall saxophone and cello him and proffer the charms of poor scarred arms, the burnt flesh of thighs and ******* this sin within my second-hand dress to caress his heart and capture him. Wind and string go enrapturing! Pull him close to the edge of the abyss – I want him to hang on my lips as I’ve hung so long on his.

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Mar 16, 2016

Mar 16, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC

I’m Oxfam clothed and head full of henna, he’s Age Concern dressed for less than a tenner. Does this make us rivals or more compatible? Anything’s possible now I’m out of hospital, picking his path oblivious to obstacles, catching him in an unguarded interval; he’s too hospitable to swerve my tentacles and I too intent on the prey. “What’s with the titfer?” I bubble up giggly, kissing his cheek and trying his trilby, holding his eyes – why should I feel guilty? If he’ll play Jesus lurking in Gethsemane then I’ll be Judas flirting with the enemy. Don’t say betrayal and the double agent, I’m just a female at my play station. He used to be nurse and I the patient, now we negotiate new relations. Aspiring to more of an equal footing I’ve climbed too high and abandoned hoodies, the dreary woollies, sackcloth and ashes, the words that stuck to my tongue like glue. Between heavy make-up and credit crashes I talk too naughty and hug too warmly – he must take his turn to be poorly, his turn to breathe in blue. In minutes the mood will be mellowing: I shall saxophone and cello him and proffer the charms of poor scarred arms, the burnt flesh of thighs and ******* this sin within my second-hand dress to caress his heart and capture him. Wind and string go enrapturing! Pull him close to the edge of the abyss – I want him to hang on my lips as I’ve hung so long on his.

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Crystal beads of sweat It's the beginning of a flood Their translucence reveals an anguish That is growing underneath Causing them to swell A great heaviness pulls There is no resistance They start a lowly journey Moved in surrender to greater will As the purest heart crumbles One drop follows after another Forming glistening streaks Along a spotless brow The tender heart soon shatters Under the weight of woe Drops fall to the ground Like glistening shards of crystal Where the beads first surfaced A single crimson drop forms It slowly paints a stripe Down that stainless skin It rolled along the hairline Over the cheekbone to the jaw In a moment of uncertainty It clung there at the edge With no alternative to release The final hold was given up Like a rose petal it fluttered down Gently landing in dampened earth Where sweat and tears first fell At this silent touch of crimson Broken crystal drops transformed Color slowly deepening Dirt glittering with garnets Each hearts' filth was covered But their purity had this stain

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Feb 21, 2017

Feb 21, 2017 at 4:07 PM UTC

Gethsemane's Garnets

Crystal beads of sweat It's the beginning of a flood Their translucence reveals an anguish That is growing underneath Causing them to swell A great heaviness pulls There is no resistance They start a lowly journey Moved in surrender to greater will As the purest heart crumbles One drop follows after another Forming glistening streaks Along a spotless brow The tender heart soon shatters Under the weight of woe Drops fall to the ground Like glistening shards of crystal Where the beads first surfaced A single crimson drop forms It slowly paints a stripe Down that stainless skin It rolled along the hairline Over the cheekbone to the jaw In a moment of uncertainty It clung there at the edge With no alternative to release The final hold was given up Like a rose petal it fluttered down Gently landing in dampened earth Where sweat and tears first fell At this silent touch of crimson Broken crystal drops transformed Color slowly deepening Dirt glittering with garnets Each hearts' filth was covered But their purity had this stain

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Stop by for a while You've had a long journey Through the dust and the sun of the Holy Land. Have a sit under my leaves Enjoy my shade Feel no shame. You see how I'm wise, How old I am You can touch my rough skin You can count my rings Multiplied along the centuries. Take the blood of my fruits, My oil will give you Peace and health Prosperity and Faith. My love I can give to many. I am the olive tree Of Gethsemane.

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Sep 29, 2014

Sep 29, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC

Stop by for a while You've had a long journey Through the dust and the sun of the Holy Land. Have a sit under my leaves Enjoy my shade Feel no shame. You see how I'm wise, How old I am You can touch my rough skin You can count my rings Multiplied along the centuries. Take the blood of my fruits, My oil will give you Peace and health Prosperity and Faith. My love I can give to many. I am the olive tree Of Gethsemane.

Continue reading...

Sometimes we rant and rave here for no real value other than the release we think it grants, A release as real as the ****** everyone seeks. There is no release in this ether any longer, the words captured and dissected for all to consider, left us limp and wasted - unfulfilled. The facade created for legalistic cause, show your lifestyle to be rich and full, all it was is empty halls and vacant thoughts. Desires unfulfilled from the first, your facade. Breakfast, lunch and dinner on the hoof! Parties and settings to raise the roof, False invitation and another deceit Open the crypt of your own design. Lay in the linens your deceit bought - rest your head on the silken pillow, The door closes one last time And the blade is raised. Darkly - Kidron flows to its end Temple on one bank, mount on the other Dark with the blood of sacrifice Gethsemane calling.

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Jun 18, 2014

Jun 18, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC

jerry-hollingsworth

Sometimes we rant and rave here for no real value other than the release we think it grants, A release as real as the ****** everyone seeks. There is no release in this ether any longer, the words captured and dissected for all to consider, left us limp and wasted - unfulfilled. The facade created for legalistic cause, show your lifestyle to be rich and full, all it was is empty halls and vacant thoughts. Desires unfulfilled from the first, your facade. Breakfast, lunch and dinner on the hoof! Parties and settings to raise the roof, False invitation and another deceit Open the crypt of your own design. Lay in the linens your deceit bought - rest your head on the silken pillow, The door closes one last time And the blade is raised. Darkly - Kidron flows to its end Temple on one bank, mount on the other Dark with the blood of sacrifice Gethsemane calling.

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His dead! I suspect Nietzsche did it in morality with a book; I suspect Platon did it in birth with stillbirth; I suspect Machiavelli did it on Ruling with the ends to justify the means; I suspect Darwin did it in Galápagos with birds; I suspect Scientists did it in laboratories with stem cells; I suspect Romans did it in Golgotha with a cross; I suspect Jews did it in Gethsemane with Judas; I suspect Christians did it in Spain with inquisition; I suspect Muslims did in New York with a plane; I suspect Adolf did it in Poland with gas; I suspect Stalin did it in Siberia with gulags; I suspect United states did it in Hiroshima with a bomb; I suspect United nations did it in wars by looking away; I suspect God did it in Heaven by suicide; I suspect I did it here with a poem I suspect You did it.

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May 15, 2015

May 15, 2015 at 3:57 AM UTC

The Dead god Cluedo

His dead! I suspect Nietzsche did it in morality with a book; I suspect Platon did it in birth with stillbirth; I suspect Machiavelli did it on Ruling with the ends to justify the means; I suspect Darwin did it in Galápagos with birds; I suspect Scientists did it in laboratories with stem cells; I suspect Romans did it in Golgotha with a cross; I suspect Jews did it in Gethsemane with Judas; I suspect Christians did it in Spain with inquisition; I suspect Muslims did in New York with a plane; I suspect Adolf did it in Poland with gas; I suspect Stalin did it in Siberia with gulags; I suspect United states did it in Hiroshima with a bomb; I suspect United nations did it in wars by looking away; I suspect God did it in Heaven by suicide; I suspect I did it here with a poem I suspect You did it.

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In Gethsemane Jesus was sweating blood (John Kerry sipped a Perrier) Pilot, washing up, could work no good (The Ayatollah practiced his ***** And Jesus, beaten, headed to the Cross... (The peace they plan isn't what we want to hear) Established peace for Man in Heaven (The Devil take this lower sphere.) The Good thing is, He's risen! He is Risen!

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Apr 3, 2015

Apr 3, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC

Good Friday 2015

In Gethsemane Jesus was sweating blood (John Kerry sipped a Perrier) Pilot, washing up, could work no good (The Ayatollah practiced his ***** And Jesus, beaten, headed to the Cross... (The peace they plan isn't what we want to hear) Established peace for Man in Heaven (The Devil take this lower sphere.) The Good thing is, He's risen! He is Risen!

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