Faith Poems | Poemist

Popular Faith Poems

Let America Be America Again

by Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme

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Don'T Expect Blind Faith

by Curtis Doherty

If you're so smart and have all the answers
Why the hell hasn't anything changed?
Are we supposed to believe your predictions?
Or are we being led astray?
The world is full of cynics who cry,
"The end is near we're all going to die!"
All this talk of doom and gloom,
I don't subscribe to that point of view
The world is full of people, who live in hope and die in despair!
You prey upon their weakness, steal their dreams pretending you care

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In The Cathedral

by Edward Dowden

THE altar-lights burn low, the incense-fume
Sickens: O listen, how the priestly prayer
Runs as a fenland stream; a dim despair
Hails through their chaunt of praise, who here inhume
A clay-cold Faith within its carven tomb.
But come thou forth into the vital air
Keen, dark, and pure! grave Night is no betrayer,
And if perchance some faint cold star illume
Her brow of mystery, shall we walk forlorn?
An altar of the natural rock may rise

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The Narrow Way

by William Cowper

What thousands never knew the road!
What thousands hate it when 'tis known!
None but the chosen tribes of God
Will seek or choose it for their own.

A thousand ways in ruin end,
One only leads to joys on high;
By that my willing steps ascend,
Pleased with a journey to the sky.

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86. Trying

by Kea(ton) Campbell

Stumbling through the door at 1 a.m., not drunk, just sleepless's bite.
My house is clouded with fog, and I return at the latest times of night.
I long for peace, careful not to make eye contact with Death.
I cry for the coach to save me from my straits, while I rise and pine to the scant love for life that's left.

The air thickens, and tensions cut my wrists.
My days expand, and I sleep without rest.
The world weighs on my chest, with past wars documented on my flesh.
Disordered mentality is cinched around my neck, but the stool I stand on is breaded with red.

......

Recent Faith Poems

89. Until The Calm

by Kea(ton) Campbell

The darkness does not knock— it seeps, and it stains.
It craws through your marrow and threads through your veins.
Not a wound to touch, nor a scar to trace.
Just a hollowing force that tried your life and stole your grace.

I hear neighbors laugh, then it twists into your cries.
I know your grief presses heavy— cold and unkind.
I’m helpless in flesh as I draft, for you, my prayers.
Oh Lord— how I would bear your sorrow and spare you these labors.

......

86. Trying

by Kea(ton) Campbell

78. I have wandered through moments, each etched in laughter

by Kea(ton) Campbell

I have wandered through moments, each etched in laughter. I'm a master of solitude, and don't mind taking the latter.

'Life's too short' and I think we still take it too seriously, or maybe I'm just privileged to live in a First World country.

I take advantage of inheritance, but at the cost of my heritage. I used to feel ashamed for being Chinese instead of the white American.

The moral of life is 'you live and you learn,' but Matthew barely lived, and Michael can't truly learn.

I try to find lightheartedness in unfortunate situations, but sometimes it's like watching your house burn up while being thankful for God's graciousness.

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Deconstruction

by Peter Quitadamo

Deconstructing beliefs -
like playing jenga without
opposable thumbs.

65. Chronology's Replica

by Kea(ton) Campbell

When I was younger, I feared mirrors and darkness.
I feared the characters from horror films and the mutations they could harness.
I kept my head above the covers so I could witness my fated farewell.
Yet all I ever saw was the refute of my imagination’s creatures from hell.

We met during the race, and I slowed my pace to talk.
But running turned to walking, and we both reached a halt.
We regressed and recurred back to classical autonomy.
The Devil won this stretch, and I’m at a loss in my spiritual odyssey.

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