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It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.

quote by Saint Francis of Assisi
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Pardoned Out

I’m pardoned out. Again the stars
Shine on me with their myriad eyes.
So long I’ve peered ‘twixt iron bars,
I’m awed by this expanse of skies.
The world is wider than I thought,
And yet ‘tis not so wide, I know,
But into its remotest spot
My tale of shame can go.

I’m pardoned out. Old Father Time
Who seemed to halt in horror, when
I strained my manhood by a crime,
With steady step moves on again,
And through the black appalling night,
That walled me in a gloom accurst,
The wonder of the morning light
In sudden glory burst.

I’m pardoned out. I shall be knows
No more by number, but by name.
And yet each whispering wind has blown
Abroad the story of my shame.
I dread to see men shrink away
With startled looks of scorn or fear,
When in life’s crowded marts some day,
That name falls on their ear.

I’m pardoned out, ah God! to roam
Like some whipped dog among my kind.
I have no friends, I have no home,
Save these bleak walls I leave behind.
How can I face the world of men,
My comrades in the days of yore?
Oh! hide me in my cell again,
And, warden lock the door.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console to be understood as to understand to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive it is in pardoning that we are pardoned and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

quote by Saint Francis of Assisi
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O, Divine Master, Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console To be understood as to understand To be loved as to love For it is in giving that we receive It is in pardoning that we are pardoned And it is in dying to ourselves that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

quote by Saint Augustine
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Ballad Of Jesus Of Nazareth

I.

It matters not what place he drew
At first life's mortal breath,
Some say it was in Bethlehem,
And some in Nazareth.
But shame and sorrow were his lot
And shameful was his death.

The angels sang, and o'er the barn
Wherein the infant lay,
They hung a star, for they foresaw
The sad world's better day,
But well God knew what thyme and rue
Were planted by his way.

The children of the Pharisees
In hymn and orison
Worshipped the prophets, whom their sires
To cruel death had done,
And said, 'had we been there their death
We had not looked upon.'

While the star shone the angels saw
The tombs these children built
For those the world had driven out,
And smitten to the hilt,
God knew these wretched sons would bear
The self-same bloody guilt.

Always had he who strives for men
But done some other thing,
If he had not led a hermit life,
Or had not had his fling,
We would have followed him, they say,
And made him lord and King.

For John was clothed in camel's hair
And lived among the brutes;
But Jesus fared where the feast was spread
To the sound of shawms and lutes,
Where gathered knaves and publicans
And hapless prostitutes.

Like children in the market place
Who sullen sat and heard,
With John they would not mourn, nor yet
Rejoice at Jesus' word;
Had Jesus mourned, or John rejoiced,
He had been King and lord.

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poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator

Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!

It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!

Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Time To Choose

You can choose Christ today, no matter what others may say,
As your Savior and your Lord, while God, by many is ignored;
As a soul, lost and depraved, choose The Lord and be saved,
Every knee will one day bow, but, you can have salvation now.

Just accept all God has done, and you will then know His Son,
Listen not to others who scoff, as you look to Calvary’s Cross,
Where Christ Jesus died for all, to redeem us from Adam’s fall,
Which tainted every soul within, because of Adam’s original sin.

Every man shall be accountable, yes, even the unbelieving fool,
Liable to The Lord and Creator, Who’s also my God and Savior;
The sin that depraved all men, my Lord and God shall condemn,
And only when men trust in Him, are they pardoned, for their sin.

Be not only pardoned, but receive, eternal life when you believe,
Since all our sin Christ died for, to open for men Heaven’s Door,
The Door which you can enter in, if you’re washed of all your sin,
Being cleansed in the Blood, that flowed from the Lamb of God.

He’s paid for us the full price, by becoming for God a Sacrifice,
“It is finished”, our Lord said, then He was raised from the dead,
By God to offer men Eternal Life, in His Only Son, Jesus Christ,
The One and Only spotless Lamb, who is indeed the Great I Am.

(Copyright ©04/2010)

poem by Bob Gotti
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Tajmahal, a love dome

Beautiful creation of the Lord on earth
should be remembered for time to come,
what an eyes like shining diamonds,
rose may not have shine as her face,

God might have thought in spare time,
Perfect match and suitable kind,
Kind always kept her live in mind,
Was so happy with lovely find,

What would be fate when I am no more?
Who will sing and who will adore,
I must think and ways explore,
Ship should not sink before reaching shore,

I may be killed, buried underground or even poisoned,
Empire may be snatched and not even pardoned,
May be confined within walls and area cordoned,
So more happiness or safety idea altogether abandoned,

'Love Dom' for queen in unique style,
Thought emperor but in worry while,
even when empire is razed or lost,
should be the centre of attraction most,

Oh, Mumtazmahal, I will try my best,
marvelous creation and unique test,
World to wonder and still ponder,
What a message from ardent lover

Neither you nor the memory will fade,
Place for lovers where love not forbade,
you will be remembered for long and decades,
Nothing will be lost even attempted to invade

'Taj'(crown) will adore your head,
Your names in history will always lead
love songs not less than hymns are read,
Peace and calm prevail before night dead,

Though it may be called as dome
Remain it as your permanent home,
It won’t be less than huge palace,
People may visit and offer solace,

All true lovers will offer tribute,
though world at large can’t contribute,
Exclaim with words and love distribute,
All glory and feat to kings attribute,

[...] Read more

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Pardoning the bad is injuring the good.

German proverbs
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To love means loving the unlovable. To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable. Faith means believing the unbelievable. Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless.

quote by Gilbert K. Chesterton
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Secretary of War Stanton used to get out of patience with Lincoln because he was all the time pardoning men who ought to be shot.

quote by Elihu Root
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Clinton's pardoning of Marc Rich was off-the-wall.

quote by Morley Safer
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Hymn XXIX: Come, Ye Weary Sinners, Come

Come, ye weary sinners, come,
All who groan beneath your load,
Jesus calls his wanderers home,
Hasten to your pardoning God!
Come, ye guilty spirits oppressed,
Answer to the Saviour's call,
'Come, and I will give you rest,
Come, and I will save you all.'

Jesus, full of truth and love,
We thy kindest word obey;
Faithful let thy mercies prove,
Take our load of guilt away;
Fain we would on thee rely,
Cast on thee our every care,
To thine arms of mercy fly,
Find our lasting quiet there.

Burdened with a world of grief,
Burdened with our sinful load,
Burdened with this unbelief,
Burdened with the wrath of God;
Lo! we come to thee for ease,
True and gracious as thou art,
Now our groaning souls release,
Write forgiveness on our heart.

poem by Charles Wesley
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Pardons

Those ends in war the best contentment bring,
Whose peace is made up with a pardoning.

poem by Robert Herrick
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Kaiser Dead

What, Kaiser dead? The heavy news
Post-haste to Cobden calls the Muse,
From where in Farringford she brews
The ode sublime,
Or with Pen-bryn's bold bard pursues
A rival rhyme.

Kai's bracelet tail, Kai's busy feet,
Were known to all the village street.
"What, poor Kai dead?" say all I meet;
"A loss indeed!"
O for the croon pathetic, sweet,
Of Robin's reed!

Six years ago I brought him down,
A baby dog, from London town;
Round his small throat of black and brown
A ribbon blue,
And vouch'd by glorious renown
A dachshound true.

His mother, most majestic dame,
Of blood unmix'd, from Potsdam came;
And Kaiser's race we deem'd the same —
No lineage higher.
And so he bore the imperial name.
But ah, his sire!

Soon, soon the days conviction bring.
The collie hair, the collie swing,
The tail's indomitable ring,
The eye's unrest —
The case was clear; a mongrel thing
Kai stood confest.

But all those virtues, which commend
The humbler sort who serve and tend,
Were thine in store, thou faithful friend.
What sense, what cheer!
To us, declining tow'rds our end,
A mate how dear!

For Max, thy brother-dog, began
To flag, and feel his narrowing span.
And cold, besides, his blue blood ran,
Since, 'gainst the classes,
He heard, of late, the Grand Old Man
Incite the masses.

Yes, Max and we grew slow and sad;

[...] Read more

poem by Matthew Arnold from Littell's Living Age, vol. 174 (1887)
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Lord, with Glowing Heart I'd Praise Thee

Lord, with glowing heart I'd praise Thee,
For the bliss Thy love bestows,
For the pardoning grace that saves me,
And the peace that from it flows:
Help, O God, my weak endeavor;
This dull soul to rapture raise:
Thou must light the flame, or never
Can my love be warmed to praise.

Praise, my soul, the God that sought thee,
Wretched wanderer, far astray;
Found thee lost, and kindly brought thee
From the paths of death away;
Praise, with love's devoutest feeling,
Him Who saw thy guilt-born fear,
And the light of hope revealing,
Bade the blood-stained cross appear.

Praise thy Savior God that drew thee
To that cross, new life to give,
Held a blood sealed pardon to thee,
Bade thee look to Him and live.
Praise the grace whose threats alarmed thee,
Roused thee from thy fatal ease;
Praise the grace whose promise warmed thee,
Praise the grace that whispered peace.

Lord, this bosom's ardent feeling
Vainly would my lips express.
Low before Thy footstool kneeling,
Deign Thy suppliant's prayer to bless:
Let Thy grace, my soul's chief treasure,
Love's pure flame within me raise;
And, since words can never measure,
Let my life show forth Thy praise.

poem by Francis Scott Key
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A Sketch

Young Harwald's burning coal-black eye,
And clustering locks of raven dye—
That o'er his lofty forehead hung,
In thick neglected masses flung,—
Contrasted strangely with the cheek
So wan, so sunken, and so pale,—
Save when the hectic's transient streak
Pass'd over it—and told a tale
Of silent suffering and decay,
That wore the springs of life away.

“Scarce five and twenty years,” he said,
“The light of heaven has round me shed;
But these few years of woe and crime,
Have done the lingering work of time.
I was a spoil'd and wayward boy,
In infancy my father's toy;
Each wild caprice, each childish whim,
Was humour'd and indulged by him;
Until my passions, unrestrain'd,
A fearful empire o'er me gain'd;
And in this form, so changed, decay'd,
Behold the wreck that they have made.

“Thou knowest now what I have been,
And what I am:—but no, unseen,
Unknown, forever, must remain
The dreary loneliness,—the pain
Of blighted hopes, remorse's sting,
And all the vulture forms that cling
Around this heart, where they were nursed,
Till they have render'd it accursed!

“Nay, nay! speak not to me of peace,
Of pardoning love, and heavenly grace;
My callous heart is scorch'd and sear,
It has naught now to hope or fear.
It may be, in my days of youth,
Before my heart was warp'd from truth,
Thy words had not been vain—but now
The mark of Cain is on my brow!
Ay! spurn me from thee, if thou wilt—
'T is just—this hand is red with guilt;
And 't is not meet that it should clasp,
With one so pure, in friendly grasp.

“I could not weep—no, not one tear,
Though it might change my final sentence:
I feel it—it is written here—
And my scorch'd heart is waste and drear

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Tale XVII

RESENTMENT.

Females there are of unsuspicious mind,
Easy and soft and credulous and kind;
Who, when offended for the twentieth time,
Will hear the offender and forgive the crime:
And there are others whom, like these to cheat,
Asks but the humblest efforts of deceit;
But they, once injured, feel a strong disdain,
And, seldom pardoning, never trust again;
Urged by religion, they forgive--but yet
Guard the warm heart, and never more forget:
Those are like wax--apply them to the fire,
Melting, they take th' impressions you desire;
Easy to mould and fashion as you please,
And again moulded with an equal ease:
Like smelted iron these the forms retain,
But once impress'd, will never melt again.
A busy port a serious Merchant made
His chosen place to recommence his trade;
And brought his Lady, who, their children dead,
Their native seat of recent sorrow fled:
The husband duly on the quay was seen,
The wife at home became at length serene;
There in short time the social couple grew
With all acquainted, friendly with a few;
When the good lady, by disease assail'd,
In vain resisted--hope and science fail'd:
Then spoke the female friends, by pity led,
'Poor merchant Paul! what think ye? will he wed?
A quiet, easy, kind, religious man,
Thus can he rest?--I wonder if he can.'
He too, as grief subsided in his mind,
Gave place to notions of congenial kind:
Grave was the man, as we have told before;
His years were forty--he might pass for more;
Composed his features were, his stature low,
His air important, and his motion slow:
His dress became him, it was neat and plain,
The colour purple, and without a stain;
His words were few, and special was his care
In simplest terms his purpose to declare;
A man more civil, sober, and discreet,
More grave and corteous, you could seldom meet:
Though frugal he, yet sumptuous was his board,
As if to prove how much he could afford;
For though reserved himself, he loved to see
His table plenteous, and his neighbours free:
Among these friends he sat in solemn style,
And rarely soften'd to a sober smile:

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poem by George Crabbe
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The Cathedral Of Rheims

He who walks through the meadows of Champagne
At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear,
Sees it draw near
Like some great mountain set upon the plain,
From radiant dawn until the close of day,
Nearer it grows
To him who goes
Across the country. When tall towers lay
Their shadowy pall
Upon his way,
He enters, where
The solid stone is hollowed deep by all
Its centuries of beauty and of prayer.

Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings
Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls,
Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls
What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings?
Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train,
Whose mighty hand Saint Remy's hand did keep
And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep
An echo of the voice of Charlemagne.
For God thou has known fear, when from His side
Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new,
But still the sky was bountiful and blue
And thou wast crowned with France's love and pride.
Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base;
And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass
The setting sun sees thousandfold his face;
Sorrow and joy, in stately silence pass
Across thy walls, the shadow and the light;
Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white
Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames,
The brows of saints with venerable names,
And in the night erect a fiery wall.
A great but silent fervour burns in all
Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb,
And know that down below, beside the Rhine -
Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in line -
With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come.

Suddenly, each knows fear;
Swift rumours pass, that every one must hear,
The hostile banners blaze against the sky
And by the embassies mobs rage and cry.
Now war has come, and peace is at an end.
On Paris town the German troops descend.
They are turned back, and driven to Champagne.
And now, as to so many weary men,
The glorious temple gives them welcome, when

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poem by Emile Verhaeren
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The Parish Register - Part III: Burials

THERE was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time
When humble Christians died with views sublime;
When all were ready for their faith to bleed,
But few to write or wrangle for their creed;
When lively Faith upheld the sinking heart,
And friends, assured to meet, prepared to part;
When Love felt hope, when Sorrow grew serene,
And all was comfort in the death-bed scene.
Alas! when now the gloomy king they wait,
'Tis weakness yielding to resistless fate;
Like wretched men upon the ocean cast,
They labour hard and struggle to the last;
'Hope against hope,' and wildly gaze around
In search of help that never shall be found:
Nor, till the last strong billow stops the breath,
Will they believe them in the jaws of Death!
When these my Records I reflecting read,
And find what ills these numerous births succeed;
What powerful griefs these nuptial ties attend;
With what regret these painful journeys end;
When from the cradle to the grave I look,
Mine I conceive a melancholy book.
Where now is perfect resignation seen?
Alas! it is not on the village-green: -
I've seldom known, though I have often read,
Of happy peasants on their dying-bed;
Whose looks proclaimed that sunshine of the breast,
That more than hope, that Heaven itself express'd.
What I behold are feverish fits of strife,
'Twixt fears of dying and desire of life:
Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure;
Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure;
At best a sad submission to the doom,
Which, turning from the danger, lets it come.
Sick lies the man, bewilder'd, lost, afraid,
His spirits vanquish'd, and his strength decay'd;
No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend -
'Call then a priest, and fit him for his end.'
A priest is call'd; 'tis now, alas! too late,
Death enters with him at the cottage-gate;
Or time allow'd--he goes, assured to find
The self-commending, all-confiding mind;
And sighs to hear, what we may justly call
Death's common-place, the train of thought in all.
'True I'm a sinner,' feebly he begins,
'But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins:'
(Such cool confession no past crimes excite!
Such claim on Mercy seems the sinner's right!)
'I know mankind are frail, that God is just,
And pardons those who in his Mercy trust;

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poem by George Crabbe
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An Invective Written By Mr. George Chapman Against Mr. Ben Jonson

Great, learned, witty Ben, be pleased to light
The world with that three-forked fire; nor fright
All us, thy sublearned, with luciferous boast
That thou art most great, most learn'd, witty most
Of all the kingdom, nay of all the earth;
As being a thing betwixt a human birth
And an infernal; no humanity
Of the divine soul shewing man in thee.

* * * * *

Though thy play genius hang his broken wings
Full of sick feathers, and with forced things,
Imp thy scenes, labour'd and unnatural,
And nothing good comes with thy thrice-vex'd call,
Comest thou not yet, nor yet? O no, nor yet;
Yet are thy learn'd admirers so deep set
In thy preferment above all that cite
The sun in challenge for the heat and light
Of heaven's influences which of you two knew
And have most power in them; Great Ben, 'tis you.
Examine him, some truly-judging spirit,
That pride nor fortune hath to blind his merit,
He match'd with all book-fires, he ever read
His dusk poor candle-rents; his own fat head
With all the learn'd world's, Alexander's flame
That Caesar's conquest cow'd, and stript his fame,
He shames not to give reckoning in with his;
As if the king pardoning his petulancies
Should pay his huge loss too in such a score
As all earth's learned fires he gather'd for.
What think'st thou, just friend? equall'd not this pride
All yet that ever Hell or Heaven defied?
And yet for all this, this club will inflict
His faultful pain, and him enough convict
He only reading show'd; learning, nor wit;
Only Dame Gilian's fire his desk will fit.
But for his shift by fire to save the loss
Of his vast learning, this may prove it gross:
True Muses ever vent breaths mixt with fire
Which, form'd in numbers, they in flames expire
Not only flames kindled with their own bless'd breath
That gave th' unborn life, and eternize death.
Great Ben, I know that this is in thy hand
And how thou fix'd in heaven's fix'd star dost stand
In all men's admirations and command;
For all that can be scribbled 'gainst the sorter
Of thy dead repercussions and reporter.
The kingdom yields not such another man;
Wonder of men he is; the player can

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poem by George Chapman
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