Church poems show us the importance of the church. Going to church can be different for everyone but one thing is common that there is worship and thanksgiving to God. This is the place where all the sorrows of the world are forgotten. Man feels happiness and peace. Poets have chosen their own best words for churches. A list of poems about church is given, choose the poem of your choice.
Table of Contents
Come To Church
God Bless All Churches
Poet: Caleb Davis Bradlee
We have but one Leader, Christ Jesus, the Lord,
We’ll join in his praises with gracious accord;
May all Churches love the one Guide to proclaim,
And write on their banners the Saviour’s blest name.
With Jesus as Leader, Defender, and Guide,
The other great doctrines we will not decide;
But we’ll leave to each Church its own special plea,
And each one shall speak it as each one shall see.
We’ll all look to Heaven as a right blessed home,
We’ll all do our best whilst on earth we shall roam;
We’ll love one another forever and aye;
And “God bless all Churches” we daily will pray.
BY GEORGE HERBERT
While that my soul repairs to her devotion,
Here I intomb my flesh, that it betimes
May take acquaintance of this heap of dust;
To which the blast of death’s incessant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust
My body to this school, that it may learn
To spell his elements, and find his birth
Written in dusty heraldry and lines ;
Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at jet, and marble put for signs,
To sever the good fellowship of dust,
And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,
When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust?
Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true descent: that when thou shalt grow fat,
And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know,
That flesh is but the glass, which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust. Mark, here below,
How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,
That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.
Some Go To Church To …
Poet: Greta Zwaan, © 1994
Four-wall Christians, safe in our way;
Make little impact if all we do is pray.
We may share our dollars, the few we may not need,
And call it generous giving, but God will call it greed.
We think not of our neighbour, or pain in other lands,
We have to make a living, achieve our goals and plans.
We go to church each Sunday, like Christians ought to do,
But after every service, we haven’t changed our view.
We live so isolated, so far from hurt and pain;
We stifle our own conscience time and time again.
But what if a “RWANDA” should happen in our land?
And we should feel that heartache, and need that helping hand?
Would we think that a Christian, who had the means and power
Should send relief and comfort in our most desperate hour?
If mortar shells were falling and bombs dropped everywhere,
Would we want other Christians to just kneel down in prayer?
I’d think we’d want assistance, involvement and concern,
With no thought of repayment or favours to return.
Not just a token offering, not just a passing glance,
But genuine love and caring; a new start, a new chance.
If we want that from others, we ought to give the same,
Not out of sheer compulsion, but give in Jesus’ name.
Don’t be a “four -wall” Christian who doesn’t get involved,
Who gives a meagre dollar and prays that wars are solved.
Become a burden-bearer, become a caring friend,
Stretch forth your hand in mercy, just let your life be spent.
The things that are important are what God gives to you,
And how you use that talent that makes His message true.
You cannot take it with you, you’ve heard that line before,
But souls won for God’s glory will share that heavenly shore.
The Bride Of Christ
Poet: Clara M. Brooks
O church of God, thou spotless bride,
On Jesus’ breast secure!
No stains of sin in thee abide;
Thy garments all are pure.
Of unity and holiness
Thy gentle voice doth sing;
Of purity and lowliness
Thy songs in triumph ring.
Thou lovely virgin, thou art fair,
Thy mother’s only child.
Thy heavenly music let me hear;
Thy voice is sweet and mild.
Thy cheeks adorned with jewels bright,
Thy neck with chains of gold;
Unfurl thy banners in thy might,
Thy graces rich unfold.
She stood attired in spotless dress
The early morning through,
And then into the wilderness
On eagle’s wings she flew;
And, nourished there from heavenly clime.
She lived for many years;
Now in this blessed evening time
Her glory reappears.
She leans upon an arm of love:
No sin her garments taints;
They’re made of linen woven above –
The righteousness of saints.
The marriage of the Lamb is come;
His bride all ready stands;
The Bridegroom soon will take her home
To dwell in heavenly lands.
The Church Triumphant
Poet: Daniel S. Warner
Men speak of a “church triumphant”
As something on earth unknown;
They think us beneath the tyrant
Until we shall reach our home.
Oh! can not the great Redeemer
Prevail over Satan here?
Or must we remain yet under
Confusion, pressed down in fear?
He built on a sure foundation,
And said that the gates of hell
Against her divine munitions
Can never indeed prevail.
Then how can you say, dear people,
You can not be kept each day?
The infinite arm is able;
His word has not passed away.
‘Tis not in the church of Jesus
That people yet live in sin,
But in the dark creeds they’re joining
And vainly are trusting in.
God’s church is alone triumphant,
In holiness all complete,
And all the dark powers of Satan
She tramples beneath her feet.
Thank God for a church triumphant,
All pure in this world below!
For the kingdom that Jesus founded
Does triumph o’er every foe.
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
BY THOMAS GRAY
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.
Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
And read their hist’ry in a nation’s eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.
“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,
Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
“The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Grav’d on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav’n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear,
He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
A Boy in Church
BY ROBERT GRAVES
‘Gabble-gabble, . . . brethren, . . . gabble-gabble!’
My window frames forest and heather.
I hardly hear the tuneful babble,
Not knowing nor much caring whether
The text is praise or exhortation,
Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation.
Outside it blows wetter and wetter,
The tossing trees never stay still.
I shift my elbows to catch better
The full round sweep of heathered hill.
The tortured copse bends to and fro
In silence like a shadow-show.
The parson’s voice runs like a river
Over smooth rocks, I like this church:
The pews are staid, they never shiver,
They never bend or sway or lurch.
‘Prayer,’ says the kind voice, ‘is a chain
That draws down Grace from Heaven again.’
I add the hymns up, over and over,
Until there’s not the least mistake.
Seven-seventy-one. (Look! there’s a plover!
It’s gone!) Who’s that Saint by the lake?
The red light from his mantle passes
Across the broad memorial brasses.
It’s pleasant here for dreams and thinking,
Lolling and letting reason nod,
With ugly serious people linking
Sad prayers to a forgiving God . . . .
But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying
With furious zeal like madmen praying.
Alfred Edward Housman
In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
A happy noise to hear.
Here of a Sunday morning
My love and I would lie,
And see the coloured counties,
And hear the larks so high
About us in the sky.
The bells would ring to call her
In valleys miles away;
“Come all to church, good people;
Good people come and pray.”
But here my love would stay.
And I would turn and answer
Among the springing thyme,
“Oh, peal upon our wedding,
And we will hear the chime,
And come to church in time.”
But when the snows at Christmas
On Bredon top were strown,
My love rose up so early
And stole out unbeknown
And went to church alone.
They tolled the one bell only,
Groom there was none to see,
The mourners followed after,
And so to church went she,
And would not wait for me.
The bells they sound on Bredon,
And still the steeples hum,
“Come all to church, good people.”—
O noisy bells, be dumb;
I hear you, I will come.
Read More: God’s Mercy Poems