love poems

O the deep, deep love of Jesus!
Vast, unmeasured, boundless, free;
Rolling as a mighty ocean
In its fullness over me.
Underneath me, all around me,
Is the current of thy love;
Leading onward, leading homeward,
To thy glorious rest above.

O the deep, deep love of Jesus!
Spread his praise from shore to shore;
How he loveth, ever loveth,
Changeth never, never-more;
How he watches o'er his loved ones,
Died to call them all his own;
How for them he intercedeth,
Watcheth o'er them from the throne.

Jesus I am resting, resting In the joy of what thou art;
I am finding out the greatness Of thy loving heart.
Thou hast bid me gaze upon thee, As thy beauty fills my soul,
For by thy transforming power, Thou hast made me whole.

Jesus I am resting, resting In the joy of what thou art;
I am finding out the greatness Of thy loving heart.

O how great thy lovingkindness, Vaster, broader than the sea!
O how marvelous thy goodness Lavished all on me!
Yes, I rest in thee, Beloved, Know what wealth of grace is thine,

And didst thou love the race that loved not thee?
And didst thou take to heaven a human brow?
Dost plead with man's voice by the marvellous sea?
Art thou his kinsman now?

O God, O kinsman loved, but not enough,
O Man, with eyes majestic after death,
Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough,
Whose lips drawn human breath:

By that one likeness which is ours and thine,
By that one nature which doth hold us kin,
By that high heaven where, sinless, thou dost shine
To draw us sinners in;

Love wooing Honour, Honour's love did win
And had his pleasure all a summer's day.
Not understanding how the dooms begin,
Love wooing Honour, wooed her life away.
Then wandered he a full five years' unrest
Until, one night, this Honour that had died
Came as he slept, in youth grown glorified
And smiling like the Saints whom God has blest.

But when he saw her on the clear night shine
Serene with more than mortal light upon her,
The boy that careless was of things divine,
Small Love, turned penitent to worship Honour.

What love I when I love Thee, O my God?
Not corporal beauty, nor the limb of snow,
Nor of loved light the white and pleasant flow,
Nor manna showers, nor streams that flow abroad,
Nor flowers of Heaven, nor small stars of the sod:
Not these, my God, I love, who love Thee so;
Yet love I something better than I know:—
A certain light on a more golden road;
A sweetness, not of honey or the hive;
A beauty, not of summer or the spring;
A scent, a music, and a blossoming
Eternal, timeless, placeless, without gyve,

A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love:
The folk who are buying and selling,
The clouds on their journey above
The cold wet winds ever blowing,
And the shadowy hazel grove
Where mouse-grey waters are flowing,
Threaten the head that I love.

Poets love nature, and themselves are love;
The scorn of fools, and mock of idle pride
The vile in nature worthless deeds approve
They court the vile, and spurn all good beside
Poets love nature, like the calm of heaven
Her gifts like heaven's love spread far and wide
In all her works there are no signs of leaven
Sorrow abashes from her simple pride
Her flowers like pleasures have their seasons birth
And bloom through region[s] here below
They are her very scriptures upon earth
And teach us simple mirth where e'er we go

In the vale of restless mind
I sought in mountain and in mead,
Trusting a true love for to find.
Upon an hill then took I heed;
A voice I heard--and near I yede--
In great dolour complaining tho:
"See, dear soul, my sides bleed,
Quia amore langueo.

Upon this mount I found a tree;
Under this tree a man sitting;
From head to foot wounded was he,
His hearte-blood I saw bleeding;
A seemly man to be a king
A gracious man to look unto.
I asked him how he had paining.
He said: "Quia amore langueo.

The Queen of Paphos, Erycine,
In heart did rose-cheek'd Adon love,
He mortal was but she divine,
And oft with kisses did him move;
With great gifts still she did him woo,
But he would never yield thereto.

Then since the Queen of Love by Love
To love was once a subject made,
And could thereof no pleasure prove,
By day, by night, by light or shade,
Why being mortal should I grieve,
Since she herself could not relieve?

She was a goddess heavenly,
And lov'd a fair fac'd earthly boy,

O love of God, how strong and true;
Eternal and yet ever new,
Uncomprehended and unbought,
Beyond all knowledge and all thought.

O love of God, how deep and great!
Far deeper than man's deepest hate;
Self-fed, self-kindled like the light,
Changeless, eternal, infinite.

O heavenly love, how precious still,
In days of weariness and ill!
In nights of pain and helplessness,
To heal, to comfort, and to bless.

O wide-embracing, wondrous love,
We read thee in the sky above,