Your laws safeguarded our first steps, your earth our bodies' end;
On this the 4th we celebrate, the fireworks soon exploding,
This nation birthed years ago by people, bold and daring;
But heart! dear heart!
In praise be not mislead
Hoping State preserves you.
This is a rewrite of the poem, O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman, which was a lament for Abraham Lincoln's death so shortly after the Civil War was won. Below you will find the original poem. I include it because my poem stands in juxtaposition to Whitman's. While our presidents, churches, and even our country will one day be gone, our captain, Jesus Christ will never die, and those who put their faith in him are guaranteed to arrive at the port of Heaven.
Trust Christ to save instead.
O church! our church! doctrines, buildings, and staff,
Whose songs are sung, and service too given on our behalf;
For us the elders argue—for us trustees a-building;
We give our thanks for sacred space, a house for grace outpouring;
But church! dear church!
Though one body, spirit-led,
O church! our church! doctrines, buildings, and staff,
Whose songs are sung, and service too given on our behalf;
For us the elders argue—for us trustees a-building;
We give our thanks for sacred space, a house for grace outpouring;
But church! dear church!
Though one body, spirit-led,
Expect not perfection where
Sinners are being fed.
Dear Christians, such systems are good gifts until
We demand they meet all we need, desire, want, and will;
These institutes, these growing-grounds will one day all be gone,
So let them lead you to their source: Jesus Christ enthroned.
These institutes, these growing-grounds will one day all be gone,
So let them lead you to their source: Jesus Christ enthroned.
Exult O church, and ring O bells!
Honor where'er you tread
The echoes of his order,
For we know who is our head.
Honor where'er you tread
The echoes of his order,
For we know who is our head.
This is a rewrite of the poem, O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman, which was a lament for Abraham Lincoln's death so shortly after the Civil War was won. Below you will find the original poem. I include it because my poem stands in juxtaposition to Whitman's. While our presidents, churches, and even our country will one day be gone, our captain, Jesus Christ will never die, and those who put their faith in him are guaranteed to arrive at the port of Heaven.
O Captain! My Captain!
by Walt Whitman,
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
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