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Poems of praise express our love for God. Our hearts should swell with praise and worship for our God. He has done great things. He has saved us from our sins. He has set our feet on the right path and showed us with blessings. He is our protector and shield. We love God. Enjoy these poems about praise.
[Also see Quotes from The Power Of Praise And Worship.]
Praise to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days--
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let Thy praise our tongues employ!
For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's use;
Flocks that, whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain,
Clouds that drop their fattening dews,
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse--
All that Spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores:
These to Thee, my God, we owe--
Source whence all our blessings flow!
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.
Yet should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the ripening ear--
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit--
Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store--
Though the sickening flocks should fall,
And the herds desert the stall--
Should Thine altered hand restrain
The early and the latter rain,
Blast each opening bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy;
Yet to Thee my soul should raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise,
And when every blessing's flown,
Love Thee--for Thyself alone.
ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD
My God, I love thee! not because
I hope for heaven thereby;
Nor because those who love thee not
Must burn eternally.
Thou, O my Jesus, thou didst me
Upon the cross embrace!
For me didst bear the nails and spear,
And manifold disgrace,
And griefs and torments numberless,
And sweat of agony,
Yea, death itself,--and all for one
That was thine enemy.
Then why, O blessed Jesus Christ,
Should I not love thee well?
Not for the hope of winning heaven,
Nor of escaping hell;
Not with the hope of gaining aught,
Not seeking a reward;
But as thyself hast loved me,
O everlasting Lord!
E'en so I love thee, and will love,
And in thy praise will sing,--
Solely because thou art my God,
And my eternal King.
From the Latin of ST. FRANCIS XAVIER.
Translation of EDWARD CASWALL
[Sometimes attributed to the Emperor Charlemagne. The better opinion, however, inclines to Pope Gregory I., called the Great, as the author, and fixes its origin somewhere in the sixth century.]
Creator Spirit, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come visit every pious mind.
Come pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
O source of uncreated light.
The Father's promised Paraclete!
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire.
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring,
To sanctify us while we sing.
Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy seven-fold energy!
Thou strength of his almighty hand.
Whose power does heaven and earth command!
Proceeding Spirit, our defence,
Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense,
And crown'st thy gift with eloquence!
Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, O, inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand and hold 'em down.
Chase from our minds the infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us on the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe;
Give us thyself, that we may see
The Father and the Son by thee.
Immortal honor, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's name;
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died;
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee.
From the Latin of ST. GREGORY
Translation of JOHN DRYDEN
[Written in the tenth century by Robert II., the gentle son of Hugh Capet.]
Come, Holy Ghost! thou fire divine!
From highest heaven on us down shine!
Comforter, be thy comfort mine!
Come, Father of the poor, to earth;
Come, with thy gifts of precious worth;
Come Light of all of mortal birth!
Thou rich in comfort! Ever blest
The heart where thou art constant guest,
Who giv'st the heavy-laden rest.
Come, thou in whom our toil is sweet,
Our shadow in the noonday heat,
Before whom mourning flieth fleet.
Bright Sun of Grace! thy sunshine dart
On all who cry to thee apart,
And fill with gladness every heart.
Whate'er without thy aid is wrought,
Or skilful deed, or wisest thought,
God counts it vain and merely naught.
O cleanse us that we sin no more.
O'er parched souls thy waters pour;
Heal the sad heart that acheth sore.
Thy will be ours in all our ways;
O melt the frozen with thy rays;
Call home the lost in error's maze.
And grant us, Lord, who cry to thee,
And hold the Faith in unity,
Thy precious gifts of charity;
That we may live in holiness,
And find in death our happiness,
And dwell with thee in lasting bliss!
From the Latin of KING ROBERT II. OF FRANCE
Translation of CATHARINE WINKWORTH
Some murmur when their sky is clear
And wholly bright to view,
If one small speck of dark appear
In their great heaven of blue;
And some with thankful love are filled
If but one streak of light,
One ray of God's good mercy, gild
The darkness of their night.
In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task,
And all good things denied;
And hearts in poorest huts admire
How Love has in their aid
(Love that not ever seems to tire)
Such rich provision made.
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH