8 Christian Poems About Angels, Guardian Angels, and Heavenly Hope

Merciful spirit! who thy bright throne above
Hast left, to wander through this dismal earth
With me, poor child of sin!—Angel of love!
Whose guardian wings hung o’er me from my birth,
And who still walk’st unwearied by my side,
How oft, oh thou compassionate! must thou mourn
Over the wayward deeds, the thoughts of pride,
That thy pure eyes behold! Yet not aside
From thy sad task dost thou in anger turn;
But patiently, thou hast but gazed and sighed,
And followed still, striving with the divine
Powers of thy soul for mastery over mine;
And though all line of human hope be past,
Still fondly watching, hoping, to the last.

Dear Angel, ever at my side,
How loving thou must be,
To leave thy home in heaven to guide
A little child like me!
Thy beautiful and shining face
I see not, though so near;
The sweetness of thy soft, low voice
Too deaf am I to hear.

Close by my side, close by my side,
Dear Angel, walk today;
Close by thy side, close by thy side,
I’d follow all the way.

I cannot feel thee touch my hand
With pressure light and mild,
To check me as my mother doth
Her little wayward child;
But I can feel thee in my thoughts,
Striving with sin for me,
And when my heart loves God, I know
The sweetness comes from thee.

Close by my side, close by my side,
Dear Angel, walk today;
Close by thy side, close by thy side,
I’d follow all the way.

And when beside my couch I kneel
At morn and night for prayer,
There’s something speaks within my heart
And tells me thou art there.
Yes, when I pray, thou prayest too,
Thy prayer is all for me;
But when I sleep, thou sleepest not,
But watchest lovingly.

Close by my side, close by my side,
Dear Angel, walk today;
Close by thy side, close by thy side,
I’d follow all the way.

Morning, evening, noon and night,
“Praise God!” sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he laboured, long and well;
O’er his work the boy’s curls fell.

But ever, at each period,
He stopped and sang, “Praise God!”

Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, “Well done;
I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

As well as if thy voice today
Were praising God, the Pope’s great way.

This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome
Praises God from Peter’s dome.”

Said Theocrite, “Would God that I
Might praise Him, that great way, and die!”

Night passed, day shone,
And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures alway,
A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, “Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of My delight.”

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow’s birth,
Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,
Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon and night,
Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy, to youth he grew:
The man put off the stripling’s hue;

The man matured and fell away
Into the season of decay;

And ever o’er the trade he bent,
And ever lived on earth content.

(He did God’s will; to him, all one
If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, “A praise is in Mine ear;
There is no doubt in it, no fear:

So sing old worlds, and so
New worlds that from My footstool go.

Clearer loves sound other ways:
I miss My little human praise.”

Then forth sprang Gabriel’s wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

‘Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome,
And paused above Saint Peter’s dome.

In the tiring-room close by
The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight,
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career
Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And rising from the sickness drear,
He grew a priest, and now stood here.

To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.

“I bore thee from thy craftsman’s cell
And set thee here; I did not well.

Vainly I left my angel-sphere,
Vain was thy dream of many a year.

Thy voice’s praise seemed weak; it dropped—
Creation’s chorus stopped!

Go back and praise again
The early way, while I remain.

With that weak voice of our disdain,
Take up creation’s pausing strain.

Back to the cell and poor employ:
Resume the craftsman and the boy!”

Theocrite grew old at home;
A new Pope dwelt in Peter’s dome.

One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.

Hark! the herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King:
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!”
Joyful, all ye nations, rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
With the angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”

Hark! the herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!”

Christ, by highest heaven adored;
Christ, the everlasting Lord!
Late in time behold Him come,
Offspring of a virgin’s womb.
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;
Hail the incarnate Deity,
Pleased as man with men to dwell,
Jesus, our Emmanuel.

Hark! the herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!”

Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings,
Risen with healing in His wings.
Mild He lays His glory by,
Born that man no more may die;
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.

Hark! the herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!”