21 Poems About Jesus
Much has been written about Jesus Christ. Let these inspiring and uplifting poems about Jesus give you words to consider. In all of history no one has ever changed the world like Jesus has.
There are many names that refer to Jesus: God's only begotten Son, The Prince of Peace,
Immanuel, Light of The World, Messiah, Son of Man, Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace
to name only a few.
Jesus can change your life if you all Him to. The choice is always yours! We hope these Christian poems encourage and inspire you.
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The Savior's Love
Poet: J. J. Thorne
Jesus died on Calvary's mountain.
He submitted himself for all;
To bleed and die upon the cross,
For those on Him who call.
He shed his blood for our sins,
That we might through him be saved;
On him depends our wretched hearts,
A Triumph over the grave.
He submitted himself with all power.
On earth and in heaven above;
To die and go down in the grave.
To redeem those he loved.
He breathed the calm sweet sleep of death,
Three days in the grave.
To cleanse the heart of wrecked sinners,
A loving Savior Jehovah gave.
In the grave he fixed it complete,
A happy home to please us;
Who would have borne the spear of death,
And given their life for Jesus?
He rose again the third day;
His power spread his fame;
His love a ransom of the world.
For all that believe upon his name.
He bore our burden, he paid our debt,
And ascended to heaven above,
To prepare a home for his children,
To sing praise, peace and love.
When we have finished our journey of life,
And eternity sounds its call;
He sends his artels to take us home,
To meet the Lord of all.
A heavenly home of joy and love,
None save Jesus he gives alone;
He sacrificed his precious blood,
To join us in his throne.
There to praise the tender shepherd,
No tears of sorrow fall;
All praise and honor of his ascension,
Bestowed the Lord of all.
Poet: Berton Braley
They called him "fool" and "traitor"
As through the land he went;
They cried out "agitator"
And "brand of discontent!"
From altar and from steeple
Upon this man forlorn
The priests and "better people"
Hurled wrath and cruel scorn.
They called him "cheat" and "faker,"
And drove him from the door;
They shouted, "Mischiefmaker,
Begone and come no more!"
From border unto border
They hounded him, lest he
"Upset established order
And bring on Anarchy!"
At length they seized and tried him,
That they might have their will,
And so they crucified him
Upon a lonely hill,
The outcast agitator
Driven by scourge and rod;
They called him "fool" and "traitor."
We call him Son of God!
Poet: Lucy Qriss
And lo, my heart was sad, alone,
Bereft of one whose loving presence
Unceasing thoughtfulness and care had given.
My soul was plunged in solitude
Which ne'er before had sorrow known.
'Tis now that friendship's sacred help draws near,
And shares the painful loneliness;
Yet with all that sympathy would willingly bestow,
There is a depth it fails to calm.
Far back in deep recesses of the inner self
Unveiled, there still remains an aching hungriness
No human love can reach to soothe.
'Tis Christ alone who holds the key
And knows the balm that's needed there;
Yes, he can fathom every depth
And mould the hidden brokenness
To perfect harmony.
Serve Him Well
Poet: Greta Zwaan, © 2004
Before you serve you must obey, you cannot walk at will,
There's guidance for your daily walk, the Voice says, "Peace, be still."
You must discern the truth of God and recognize your sin,
Be willing to release its hold before God enters in.
You must relinquish all the claims you've held so firm and dear,
That independent will of yours will have to disappear.
You must regard the will of God superior to your own,
Remove the idols that you have, let God be God alone.
Don't use Him as a Sunday crutch, don't serve Him just one hour,
For every weekday too is His, He claims it through His power.
But God will not distort your plans, you must come willingly;
He'll never press a soul to change, you have to hear His plea.
Commit your way unto the Lord, He calls, He waits, He hears;
There is no sin He can't erase amid this vale of tears.
When you are willing to obey, the past is cast aside,
The slate is cleaned by Jesus' blood, no sinner is denied.
When wholly cleansed, completely clean, no errors to confess,
Then Jesus says, "Come serve with Me and watch how I will bless."
Complete denial of worldly lusts, a willingness to go;
Committed to the cause of Christ, His strength He will bestow.
You have no power of your own, but through Him you'll acquire,
The faith that brings you to your knees, refined as if by fire.
A vessel for the Master's use, a tool within His hand;
You are equipped to serve Him well, on any foreign land.
When Christ Was Born
Poet: Florence Earle Coates
On that divine all-hallowed morn
When Christ in Bethlehem was born.
How lone did Mary seem to be,
The kindly beasts for company!
But when she saw her infant's face -
Fair with the soul's unfading grace.
Softly she wept for love's excess.
For painless ease and happiness.
She pressed her treasure to her heart -
A lowly mother, set apart
In the dear way that mothers are.
And heaven seemed high, and earth afar:
And when grave kings in sumptuous guise
Adored her babe, she knew them wise;
For at his touch her sense grew dim -
So all her being worshipped him.
A nimbus seemed to crown the head
Low-nestled in that manger-bed.
And Mary's forehead, to our sight,
Wears ever something of its light;
And still the heart - poor pensioner!
In its affliction turns to her -
Best love of all, best understood.
The type of selfless motherhood!
How Much Did Christ Really Suffer?
Greta Zwaan, © 2009
Jesus suffered from His first day on earth,
separation from God on the day of His birth.
Of't left alone to walk this dark vale,
misunderstood though He loved without fail.
Tortured in body and tortured in soul,
He passed through the valley yet still in control.
He cried o'er Jerusalem, He cried over sin,
not of His own faults but that He might win,
Victory o'er evil to set all men free,
rejecting the power of Satan's decree.
Satan demanded that man be his conquest,
with the greatest of skill he stirred man to unrest,
But Christ had compassion, He saw each man's need,
while Satan's department was absolute greed.
Christ came as servant, Satan as thief;
Christ brought man healing, Satan brought grief.
Man saw the conflict and couldn't decide -
was Christ to be honoured and Satan denied?
Immediate pleasure was Satan's appeal,
Christ made demands that man thought surreal.
Leave all your treasures, come follow Me;
Satan responded, "With me you are free."
Christ is the Truth, the life and the Way;
Satan, the false one, who leads man astray.
Christ gave up all so that man could rejoice,
by clinging to Him, obeying His voice.
Man has the freedom to walk his own way;
but let it be known, with Satan, you pay!
With Jesus the debt was paid on the cross;
with Satan, no gain but complete, total loss.
Don't be dissuaded but open your eyes,
Satan will offer you nothing but lies.
Be advised strongly, you'll never regret,
the road paved by Jesus, the safest road yet!
How Big Is The Basket?
Greta Zwaan, © 2018
"Mommy, can you tell me how big the basket is?
Daddy said to ask you, that you could answer this."
"I don't quite understand dear, which basket do you mean?
There are big and little baskets and others in between."
"No, no, the basket Jesus carries that holds our family's prayers.
Where we put all our problems, the ones that Jesus shares.
He said we shouldn't worry, but tell Him how we feel;
And then He tells His daddy, Mommy, is that real?
He needs to have a basket 'cause we all pray a lot.
Remember? Daddy read that the Bible says we ought.
He calls it heavy burdens, but can He take them all?
And carry them to heaven? Our prayers are never small!
So what size is His basket, does He have more than one?
Do angels help to carry the prayers that we get done?
Tomorrow we'll have new ones, for gramps and Uncle Jack.
You know Mommy, he's so lonely, he really wants him back.
Grandpa says God knows that so why won't he come home?
Did God not get his basket, is that why he's alone?
And poor old Mrs. Smithers can barely get around,
Did angels lose her baskets and her prayers can't be found?
Poor Jesus, He's so busy, so many prayers all day,
Can we buy Him a basket to carry prayers away?
And what size of a basket would hold the prayers we make?
We can't make it too heavy; too much for Him to take.
Mommy, I want to help Him, He's busy as can be;
I'd like Him to have free time and have fun just like me.
So Mommy, just one basket that angels could help lift.
I think it would help Jesus; could we buy Him that gift?
I think 'twould make Him happy; He should be happy too,
Because He's terribly busy, that's something we could do."
Christ, The Lord
Poet: Ellwood Haines Stokes
Christ, the Lord of life and glory,
Speaks, and all obey His voice,
Lame men walk, the deaf find hearing.
And the dumb in songs rejoice.
Blind men by the wayside begging.
Felt His touch and lo! they see:
Blest, divine. Emancipator,
Thou canst set the nations free!
Love To Jesus
Poet: Jane Taylor
When Jesus Christ was here below,
And spread his works of love abroad,
If I had lived so long ago,
I think I should have loved the Lord.
Jesus, who was so very kind,
Who came to pardon sinful men.
Who healed the sick, and cured the blind -
O, must I not have loved him then?
But where is Jesus? - is he dead?
O no! he lives in heaven above;
"And blest are they," the Saviour said,
"Who, though they have not seen me, love."
I Love To Think Of Jesus
by Caleb Davis Bradlee
I love to think of that dear one
Who walked in Judah's land,
And called himself God's only Son,
Led by the Father's hand....
Read the entire poem I Love To Think Of Jesus
Poet: Edith G. Cherry
"He touched her hand, and the fever left her."
He touched her hand as he only can,
With the wondrous skill of the Great Physician,
With the tender touch of the Son of man,
And the fever-pain in the throbbing temples
Died out with the flush on brow and cheek,
And the lips that had been so parched and burning
Trembled with thanks that she could not speak,
And the eyes where the fever light had faded
Looked up, by her grateful tears made dim,
And she rose and ministered in her household;
She rose and ministered unto him.
"He touched her hand, and the fever left her."
O blessed touch of the Man divine!
So beautiful to arise and serve him
When the fever is gone from your life and mine.
It may be the fever of restless serving
With heart all thirsty for love and praise,
And eyes all aching and strained with yearning
Toward self-set goals in the future days.
Or it may be fever of spirit anguish,
Some tempest of sorrow that does not down,
Till the cross at last is in meekness lifted
And the head stoops low for the thorny crown.
Or it may be a fever of pain and anger,
When the wounded spirit is hard to bear,
And only the Lord can draw forth the arrows
Left carelessly, cruelly rankling there.
Whatever the fever, his touch can heal it;
Whatever the tempest, his voice can still.
There is only a rest as we seek his pleasure,
There is only a rest as we choose his will.
And some day, after life's fitful fever,
I think we shall say, in the home on high,
"If the hands that he touched but did his bidding,
How little it matters what else went by!"
Ah, Lord, Thou knowest us altogether,
Each heart's sore sickness, whatever it be;
Touch thou our hands! Let the fever leave us,
And so shall we minister unto thee!
In the thorny desert straying,
On the lonely mountain praying,
In the streets and highways preaching
(Oh, how gracious was his teaching!)
Mysteries of grace revealing,
Healing all who came for healing,
Toiling, sorrowing day by day, -
Passed his mortal years away.
Oft when evening's quiet close
Brought the season of repose,
And the poorest toiling peasant
Sought his home, by love made pleasant,
Jesus trod no homeward way,
Tarrying where they bade him stay,
Or, for want of welcome said,
Lacking "where to lay his head,"
On the damp and chilly sod
Spent the hours in prayer to God.
Son of God! what wondrous love
Brought thee from thy throne above,
Made thee choose an humble birth,
Choose to tread the ways of earth,
Human nature meekly wearing,
Every human sorrow sharing-,
Bearing- pride and scorn with meekness,
Kindly pitying human weakness,
Patient gentleness displaying,
Seeking out the lost and straying,
Giving even thy life to buy
Life for sinners doomed to die, -
That redemption might be free
Unto all who come to Thee?
Patience Of Jesus
Poet: Edward Denny
What grace, O Lord, and beauty shone
Around thy steps below!
What patient love was seen in all
Thy life and death of woe!
For ever on thy burdened heart
A weight of sorrow hung;
Yet no ungentle, murmuring word
Escaped thy silent tongue.
Thy foes might hate, despise, revile,
Thy friends unfaithful prove;
Unwearied in forgiveness still,
Thy heart could only love.
O give us hearts to love like thee,
Like thee, O Lord, to grieve
Far more for others' sins than all
The wrongs that we receive.
One with thyself, may every eye
In us, thy brethren, see
That gentleness and grace that spring
From union, Lord, with thee.
The Blessed Face
Poet: Ray Palmer
Jesus, these eyes have never seen
That radiant form of thine;
The veil of sense hangs dark between
Thy blessed face and mine.
I see thee not, I hear thee not,
Yet art thou oft with me;
And earth hath ne'er so dear a spot
As where I meet with thee.
Like some bright dream that comes unsought
When slumbers o'er me roll,
Thine image ever fills my thought
And charms my ravished soul.
Yet though I have not seen, and still
Must rest in faith alone,
I love thee, dearest Lord, and will,
Unseen but not unknown.
When death these mortal eyes shall seal,
And still this throbbing heart,
The rending veil shall thee reveal,
All-glorious as thou art.
This Same Jesus
Poet: Frances Ridley Havergal
"This same Jesus!" Oh, how sweetly
Fall those words upon the ear,
Like a swell of far-off music
In a night-watch still and drear!
He who healed the hopeless leper;
He who dried the widow's tear;
He who changed to health and gladness
Helpless suffering, trembling fear;
He who wandered, poor and homeless,
By the stormy Galilee;
He who on the night-robed mountain
Bent in prayer the wearied knee;
He who spake as none had spoken,
Angel-wisdom far above,
All-forgiving, ne'er upbraiding,
Full of tenderness and love;
He who gently called the weary,
"Come, and I will give you rest";
He who loved the little children,
Took them in his arms and blest;
He, the lonely Man of Sorrows,
'Neath our sin-curse bending low,
By his faithless friends forsaken
In the darkest hours of woe, -
"This same Jesus!" When the vision
Of that last and awful day
Bursts upon the prostrate spirit,
Like a midnight lightning ray;
When, else dimly apprehended,
All its terrors seem revealed,
Trumpet-knell and fiery heavens,
And the books of doom unsealed, -
Then, we lift our hearts' adoring -
"This same Jesus," loved and known;
Him, our own most gracious Savior,
Seated on the great white throne;
He himself, and "not another";
He for whom our heart-love yearned
Through long years of twilight waiting,
To his ransomed ones returned!
For this word, O Lord, we bless thee,
Bless our Master's changeless name;
Yesterday, today, forever,
Jesus Christ is still the same.
Poet: D. Wesley Myland
Tell Jesus when the burden seems too great for you to bear;
Go lay it at the feet of Christ, and know that he will care;
And tell him all the little things that come to cloud your way,
The puzzles and perplexities that trouble you today.
Tell Jesus all there is to tell about your daily needs;
About the dim uncertainties through which our pathway leads;
About the cherished hopes that lie crushed lifeless at your feet,
The golden dreams left unfulfilled, the labor incomplete.
If you could know how tenderly he makes your cares his own,
You would not stand apart again and bear the pain alone;
You would not miss the joy and peace of walking at his side,
Of finding tempest changed to calm, and sorrow sanctified.
I tell him all the story now; no other friend can be,
In morning light or evening shade, what Jesus is to me;
His human heart is still the same today as yesterday,
And in his love I find my rest, and in his strength my stay.
By Faith and Not By Sight
Poet: Clara McAlister Brooks
Following Jesus from day to day,
Gently He leads me along the way;
E’er will I trust Him all foes despite,
By faith and not by sight.
Walking with Jesus I’m in the light,
Walking with Jesus in robes of white;
Walking with Jesus my way is bright,
By faith and not by sight.
Poet: Dr. I. B. Howell
Why do the shadows oftenest - come
Where the other shadows are?
Why do the hordes of anguish follow
Hard on the heels of care?
Why did the Christ come sorrowing
And not to a glad refrain?
Why was the world's redemption scheme
Born in sorrow and in pain?
Why is the heart of motherhood
By the hand of an infant torn?
Why must a nation travail
That some great truth be born?
Why is the wine purest
That is the hardest pressed?
Why, after hours of toiling.
Comes the sweetest space of rest?
Why is subtlest perfume found
In flowers that grow in shade?
And why from dwellers in vales of tears
Are shapers of destiny made?
Do you think the life of Jesus
Would have had that power to thrill
If there had been no Gethsemane,
No Calvary's shadowy hill?
Or do you think that your own life
Would have been as pure today
If the disappointments that came to it
Passed by some other way?
That One Solitary Life
by Bishop Phillips Brooks
(written in the early 1900s)
Here is a man who was born in an obscure village,
The child of a peasant woman.
He grew up in an obscure village.
He worked in a carpenter shop until He was thirty,
and then for three years He was an itinerant teacher.
He never wrote a book.
He never held an office.
He never owned a home.
He never had a family.
He never went to college.
He never traveled two hundred miles from the place where He was born.
He never did one of the things that usually accompany greatness.
He had no credentials but Himself.
He had nothing to do with this world except the power of His divine manhood.
While still a young man, the tide of popular opinion turned against Him.
His friends ran away.
One of them denied Him.
He was turned over to His enemies.
He went through the mockery of a trial.
He was nailed upon a cross between two thieves.
His executioners gambled for the only piece of property
He had on earth while He was dying - His coat.
When He was dead He was taken down and
Laid in a borrowed grave through the pity of a friend.
Nineteen wide centuries have come and gone,
Today He is the centerpiece of the human race and
The Leader of the column of progress.
I am far within the mark when I say that all the armies that ever marched,
And all the navies that ever were built,
And all the parliaments that ever sat,
And all the kings that ever reigned, put together,
Have not affected the life of man upon this earth as powerfully as has
That one solitary life.
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