View allAll Photos Tagged SUPPLICATION
location : Kyoto Kitano-tenmangu shrine,Kyoto city,Kyoto Prefecture,Japan
A Cow of Kitano Tenmangu Shrine
"Ushi-san" (Mr Cow) is the pet name for this stone statue of a resting cow, handsomely adorned with a red bib.
"Ushi-san", the familiar of the god of Kitano-Tenmangu Shrine, is always lying stretched out, and he seems quite content to be caressed by visitors. When supplications for improved academic performance and examination success are made, he is said to pass these on to the god of the shrine. That explains the presence of so many cows within the grounds of Kitano-Tenmangu. White cows, black cows, brindle cows, calves - all stand in readiness for the visitor. While originally the cow was the symbol of a good harvest, at some point it came to represent scholarship after being associated with Sugawara Michizane for so long. Not only that, but in the process of being rubbed by countless visitors praying for good health, this cow's body has been polished to a high gleam. Now that the scent of plum-blossoms is soon to be adrift in the air, why not give "Ushi-san" a pat when you go out to admire the flowers? - Kyoto city web
1 Corinthians 10: 31
"So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God."
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I will be travelling again sometime, bought my ticket a week ago, yet my holiday off work hasn't been approved yet. This has been always the case. They had been hard with us these past couple of years , especially taking several weeks lump up into one long time off. If I'm not with the Lord, I should be worried, but I trust my God well enough to give it all to me. He will sort it out in due time.
This might be sounding shallow and absurd to anyone who lack faith or the unbelieving. Yet , that's when faith operates.
I trust the word of God and do understand , we don't fight against flesh and blood but of hidden powers of darkness in high places ( Ephesians 6 ). I already claim that resolve in the name of Jesus. Jesus assured us, if we are with him we should not worry of anything -- yeah anything ! But with prayer and supplication and thanks giving let our requests be made known unto God. We just need the armor of faith. If we lack faith, haven't been operating under faith, that means we can't please God. One can't see the wonders of God with unbelief in the heart.
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In the middle of the Medina from Marrakesh I was lead into a place where silk get his colors. The red silk the man has here in his hand, was just seconds before blank. As you can see, there was a lot of smoke and it was earthly dark. I am glad with this photo although it was not easy to resist all the supplications to visit the shop with the silk shawls ...
SO THAT YOU WILL HEAR ME
So that you will hear me
my words
sometimes grow thin
as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches.
Necklace, drunken bell
for your hands smooth as grapes.
And I watch my words from a long way off.
They are more yours than mine.
They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
It climbs the same way on damp walls.
You are to blame for this cruel sport.
They are fleeing from my dark lair.
You fill everything, you fill everything.
Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy,
and they are more used to my sadness than you are.
Now I want them to say what I want to say to you
to make you hear as I want you to hear me.
The wind of anguish still hauls on them as usual.
Sometimes hurricanes of dreams still knock them over.
You listen to other voices in my painful voice.
Lament of old mouths, blood of old supplications.
Love me, companion. Don't forsake me. Follow me.
Follow me, companion, on this wave of anguish.
But my words become stained with your love.
You occupy everything, you occupy everything.
I am making them into an endless necklace
for your white hands, smooth as grapes.
Pablo Neruda
1. Put your iTunes/ ipod / mp3 on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. Write that song name down no matter how silly it sounds!
4. Tag friends who might enjoy doing this.
1.What word/phrase best describes your photography?
“Swamp” – Michael Kamen (Band of Brothers Musical Score)
2.What makes you happy?
This Used To be my Playground – Madonna
3.What do your friends think of you?
Why Don’t we do it in the Road – Across the Universe Soundtrack
4.What do your friends think of your photography?
A Whole New World – Lea Salonga and Brad Kane (Aladdin Soundtrack) - A Whole new world?!?! Is my photography THAT eccentric?! haha
5.What do you think of your friends?
Perfect Combination - Johnny Gill & Stacy Lattisaw
6.What should you be doing now?
Spend my Life with You – Thor and Amber (awwww…….sweet!)
7.What should you photograph next?
Supplication – Alberto Iglesias (The Kite Runner Soundtrack)
8.Where will you be in 5 years?
Diga Diga Doo – Benny Goodman (The Notebook Soundtrack) – whaaat?!?!
9.Is there something you must share with someone?
Nocturne in C sharp minor Op. Posth (1830) – from “The Pianist Soundtrack”
10.What is life trying to teach you?
The Lady with the Dog – Nico Muhly (The Reader Soundtrack)
11.What’s the best thing that could happen to you?
That’s What love is for – Amy Grant
12.What new experience should you try once?
Loving you – Nina – hahaha. So who want’s to be loved by ME out there? Haha.
13.What do people like the most about you?
Beautiful Moon – Kris Allen – Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. haha
I enjoyed every moment. Thanks to Daniela for tagging me ☺
Praying in the courtyard hallway of the largest mosque in Bangladesh - the Baitul Mukarrum National Mosque in Dhaka. During prayers of supplication (dua), Muslims typically raise their hands with their palms facing upward, like someone asking or receiving something from God.
'when helpers fail and comforts flee,' I find that help arrives somehow, from I know not where. Supplication, worship, prayer are no superstition; they are acts more real than the acts of eating, drinking, sitting or walking. It is no exaggeration to say that they alone are real, all else is unreal.
― Mahatma Gandhi, The Story of My Experiments With Truth
A rim light portrait of a young monk in Bagan. You can almost sense the depth of his spirituality in his eyes, and the earnestness of his supplication in his posture.
This image serves me two purposes .... first is the obvious ... a guy in the park with his hands outstretched ... reaching towards the heavens .... pleading and supplicating ... asking for mercy and for some help ... some Divine inspiration/intervention .... Well that's a pretty accurate depiction of what I'm feeling now .... and if I wasn't such an inhibited bugger maybe I could be doing that too out in the open in public .... but I am ...and I can't .... so for both of us (the guy in the park and me) ... from our hearts to God's ears .... please ....
Secondly .... I've never used this technique before ... so just wanted a practice to use a textured overlay for one of my images .... took me too long to figure out (I'm not as smart as I used to be) .... but got it working ....
Two birds with one stone .... hopefully neither of us was killed ... (me or the birds) ....
So that you will hear me
my words
sometimes grow thin
as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches.
Necklace, drunken bell
for your hands smooth as grapes.
And I watch my words from a long way off.
They are more yours than mine.
They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
It climbs the same way on damp walls.
You are to blame for this cruel sport.
They are fleeing from my dark lair.
You fill everything, you fill everything.
Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy,
and they are more used to my sadness than you are.
Now I want them to say what I want to say to you
to make you hear as I want you to hear me.
The wind of anguish still hauls on them as usual.
Sometimes hurricanes of dreams still knock them over.
You listen to other voices in my painful voice.
Lament of old mouths, blood of old supplications.
Love me, companion. Don't forsake me. Follow me.
Follow me, companion, on this wave of anguish.
But my words become stained with your love.
You occupy everything, you occupy everything.
I am making them into an endless necklace
for your white hands, smooth as grapes.
Pablo Neruda
The Prophet Isaiah is a fresco located in Basilica di Sant'Agostino, an early Renaissance church in Rome. It is an Italian Renaissance painting, influenced by Michelangelo's work on the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
Isaiah, a powerful figure, gives the illusion of a three-dimensional character, flanked by putti figures. He carries a scroll inscribed with a supplication in Hebrew for entry into Heaven (Isaiah XXVI:2–3). Above him is a dedication in Greek to Saint Anne. Due to wear, Raphael's work has been retouched by other painters over time. In 1960, the fresco was restored to Raphael's vision.
Johann of Goritz (also Gorizius), from Luxembourg, commissioned Raphael to paint the prophet Isaiah in fresco on a pillar in the Basilica di Sant'Agostino. Soon after his arrival in Rome, his name was Latinised to Janus Corycius. He held the office of receiver of requests.
Janus was a patron of the arts. Wishing to leave a mark in Rome, he had a chapel built in the Sant'Agostino basilica, with an altar commissioned in 1512 honoring his patron saint Saint Anne. The altar included this fresco of Isaiah and a marble grouping of Virgin with St. Anne by Andrea Sansovino. The Saint Anne altar was intended as his tomb.
At the dedication of the church, a steady stream of literary friends honored Corycius with verses that were later published in the 1524 book Coryciana by Blosius Palladius, later Bishop of Foligno. The book named 120 poets who contributed verses.
During a renovation of the church in the 18th century, the sculpture by Sansovino was separated from Raphael's fresco. In the late 20th century the fresco was conserved and the sculpture was restored to its original position below.
Much comparison is made of the Raphael fresco Prophet Isaiah to the work of Michelangelo, Ernst Gombrich going as far to suggest that Michelangelo may have hired Raphael to work on Ezekiel for the Sistine Chapel, which he believes is much more reflective of Raphael than of Michelangelo. This would have allowed Raphael to both gain influence by Michelangelo and also contribute to the decoration of the Sistine Chapel.
Within the Prophet of Isaiah, noted influences by Michelangelo include:
similarity of figural composition
self-enclosed situation of Isaiah
the manner in which the scroll is held, in a spiral formula as evolved by Michelangelo
Legend has it that Corycius complained to Michelangelo that he had been overcharged for the fresco, to which Michelangelo responded, "the knee alone is worth the price demanded."
Lower Blue Lake sits like a polished, dusky emerald and reflects breaking storm clouds that wrap around the shoulders of the newly white-dusted peaks, Mount Sneffels Wilderness, Uncompahgre National Forest, Colorado.
The chill of recent snow filled the forest air as we climbed the wet trail upward and through the mixed subalpine forest of spruce, fir, and stands of Quaking Aspen. Some of the clones yet retained the height of their autumn golden hue, while others beseeched the low clouds with naked, white supplicating branches. Nearing timberline, the clouds stooped amongst the ridges, a shifting and impenetrable vapor, and I hoped that they might begin to break apart and become dramatic. The color of the water and the stillness of the surface was mesmerizing. At length, the sun seemed to shove aside the clouds into great drifts that piled, heaped, then broke around the summits. Infrequently a fish touched the surface, pursuing late-season ichthyoid hope. The family and I watched, incredulous at the sheer beauty unfolding around us. Younger Mutt was unaffected by the scene and focused primarily on ceaseless motion and targeted disturbance of reflections.
I see her very often coming to the church, silently. Taking her corner and praying very quietly but from the depth of her heart.
I think she is a German, living here, belonging to a small independent sect of Christianity. She always wears the same green clothes. She is tall and thin, and in a sense very impressive.
I often ask myself what causes someone to choose such a way of life? To leave her homeland and come to the painful Tera Sancta?
The city’s most unusual market lies along Calles Jiménez and Linares between Sagárnaga and Av Mariscal Santa Cruz, amid lively tourist artesanías (stores selling locally handcrafted items). What is on sale isn’t witchcraft as depicted in horror films; the merchandise is herbal and folk remedies, plus a few more unorthodox ingredients intended to supplicate the various spirits of the Aymará world.
Here you'll find ingredients like dried toucan beaks, intended to cure ills and protect supplicants from bad spirits. If you’re building a new house you can buy a llama fetus to bury beneath the cornerstone as a cha’lla (offering) to Pachamama (Mother Earth). If you're feeling ill or being pestered by bothersome spooks, you can purchase a plateful of colorful herbs, seeds and assorted critter parts to remedy the problem. As you pass the market stalls, watch for wandering yatiris (traditional healers), who wear dark hats and carry coca pouches, and offer (mainly to locals) fortune-telling services.
Inquiries and photographs taken here may be met with unpleasantness – ask politely first.
Thanksgiving is always a special time of year for Audrey. As leader of the Ladies Bible Study* and song leader,** Audrey reflects on the blessings of God and updates her journal.
Journal Entry November 21
"Today I stopped at the Grotto in Turtle Crossing Park. Sometimes it is mostly empty and, on those times, it is one of my most beloved spots to read God's word and pray.
I was reading Philippians 4: "Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice! Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near. Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."
While reading I had noticed a family of deer. They kept coming closer until finally the fawn sniffed and nuzzled me. I stroked its head as the doe watched carefully, the buck standing a little away, but still relaxed. What peace. What calm. "And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."
As fitting as this relaxing moment with the deer was, it fell short of what the Bible means. The word for 'peace' identifies the peace that comes at the end a war. The battle is over. There is now not only peace but, because of the nature of the battle, a long awaited peace. A peace that was hungered for.
The battle had been with God. The lost soul is alienated, separated from a relationship with their Creator. They have vioated His will and live in such a state. When the lost soul repents and believes upon the Lord Jesus Christ as their only hope for justification, for righteousness, and for the change of their life they so desperately need, they find that God gives them all of these things. And then, there is the peace.
For the peace of God, which truly surpasses our comprehension, I give thanks today."
"But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law." Galatians 5:22-23
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It is Paprihaven's Seven Days of Thanksgiving! Join us in thanking God for His many blessings! "Praise the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavens." Ephesians 1:3
Philippians 4:4-7
Previous Thanksgiving at Paprihaven!
2015:
www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/23317265455/
2016:
www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/31221411415/
2017:
www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/38546781536/
2018:
flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/45946160821/
2019:
flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/49117569293/
2020:
flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/50634408816/
* As seen here!
www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/21059005784/
** As seen here!
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
It came to my attention very recently that I never posted much from my trip to the Southwest last summer. Diving back into the archives, I found this image, and loved it much more than I ever originally did... something about the interplay of light and shadow.
Snippet of poetry by T.S. Eliot (The Hollow Men), image by Hasselblad.
A Dream of Venice
NUMB, half asleep, and dazed with whirl of wheels,
And gasp of steam, and measured clank of chains,
I heard a blithe voice break a sudden pause,
Ringing familiarly through the lamp-lit night,
“Wife, here's your Venice!”
I was lifted down,
And gazed about in stupid wonderment,
Holding my little Katie by the hand—
My yellow-haired step-daughter. And again
Two strong arms led me to the water-brink,
And laid me on soft cushions in a boat,—
A queer boat, by a queerer boatman manned—
Swarthy-faced, ragged, with a scarlet cap—
Whose wild, weird note smote shrilly through the dark.
Oh yes, it was my Venice! Beautiful,
With melancholy, ghostly beauty—old,
And sorrowful, and weary—yet so fair,
So like a queen still, with her royal robes,
Full of harmonious colour, rent and worn!
I only saw her shadow in the stream,
By flickering lamplight,—only saw, as yet,
White, misty palace-portals here and there,
Pillars, and marble steps, and balconies,
Along the broad line of the Grand Canal;
And, in the smaller water-ways, a patch
Of wall, or dim bridge arching overhead.
But I could feel the rest. 'Twas Venice!—ay,
The veritable Venice of my dreams.
I saw the grey dawn shimmer down the stream,
And all the city rise, new bathed in light,
With rose-red blooms on her decaying walls,
And gold tints quivering up her domes and spires—
Sharp-drawn, with delicate pencillings, on a sky
Blue as forget-me-nots in June. I saw
The broad day staring in her palace-fronts,
Pointing to yawning gap and crumbling boss,
And colonnades, time-stained and broken, flecked
With soft, sad, dying colours—sculpture-wreathed,
And gloriously proportioned; saw the glow
Light up her bright, harmonious, fountain'd squares,
And spread out on her marble steps, and pass
Down silent courts and secret passages,
Gathering up motley treasures on its way;—
Groups of rich fruit from the Rialto mart,
Scarlet and brown and purple, with green leaves—
Fragments of exquisite carving, lichen-grown,
Found, 'mid pathetic squalor, in some niche
Where wild, half-naked urchins lived and played—
A bright robe, crowned with a pale, dark-eyed face—
A red-striped awning 'gainst an old grey wall—
A delicate opal gleam upon the tide.
I looked out from my window, and I saw
Venice, my Venice, naked in the sun—
Sad, faded, and unutterably forlorn!—
But still unutterably beautiful.
For days and days I wandered up and down—
Holding my breath in awe and ecstasy,—
Following my husband to familiar haunts,
Making acquaintance with his well-loved friends,
Whose faces I had only seen in dreams
And books and photographs and his careless talk.
For days and days—with sunny hours of rest
And musing chat, in that cool room of ours,
Paved with white marble, on the Grand Canal;
For days and days—with happy nights between,
Half-spent, while little Katie lay asleep
Out on the balcony, with the moon and stars.
O Venice, Venice!—with thy water-streets—
Thy gardens bathed in sunset, flushing red
Behind San Giorgio Maggiore's dome—
Thy glimmering lines of haughty palaces
Shadowing fair arch and column in the stream—
Thy most divine cathedral, and its square,
With vagabonds and loungers daily thronged,
Taking their ice, their coffee, and their ease—
Thy sunny campo's, with their clamorous din,
Their shrieking vendors of fresh fish and fruit—
Thy churches and thy pictures—thy sweet bits
Of colour—thy grand relics of the dead—
Thy gondoliers and water-bearers—girls
With dark, soft eyes, and creamy faces, crowned
With braided locks as bright and black as jet—
Wild ragamuffins, picturesque in rags,
And swarming beggars and old witch-like crones,
And brown-cloaked contadini, hot and tired,
Sleeping, face-downward, on the sunny steps—
Thy fairy islands floating in the sun—
Thy poppy-sprinkled, grave-strewn Lido shore—
Thy poetry and thy pathos—all so strange!—
Thou didst bring many a lump into my throat,
And many a passionate thrill into my heart,
And once a tangled dream into my head.
'Twixt afternoon and evening. I was tired;
The air was hot and golden—not a breath
Of wind until the sunset—hot and still.
Our floor was water-sprinkled; our thick walls
And open doors and windows, shadowed deep
With jalousies and awnings, made a cool
And grateful shadow for my little couch.
A subtle perfume stole about the room
From a small table, piled with purple grapes,
And water-melon slices, pink and wet,
And ripe, sweet figs, and golden apricots,
New-laid on green leaves from our garden—leaves
Wherewith an antique torso had been clothed.
My husband read his novel on the floor,
Propped up on cushions and an Indian shawl;
And little Katie slumbered at his feet,
Her yellow curls alight, and delicate tints
Of colour in the white folds of her frock.
I lay, and mused, in comfort and at ease,
Watching them both and playing with my thoughts;
And then I fell into a long, deep sleep,
And dreamed.
I saw a water-wilderness—
Islands entangled in a net of streams—
Cross-threads of rippling channels, woven through
Bare sands, and shallows glimmering blue and broad—
A line of white sea-breakers far away.
There came a smoke and crying from the land—
Ruin was there, and ashes, and the blood
Of conquered cities, trampled down to death.
But here, methought, amid these lonely gulfs,
There rose up towers and bulwarks, fair and strong,
Lapped in the silver sea-mists;—waxing aye
Fairer and stronger—till they seemed to mock
The broad-based kingdoms on the mainland shore.
I saw a great fleet sailing in the sun,
Sailing anear the sand-slip, whereon broke
The long white wave-crests of the outer sea,—
Pepin of Lombardy, with his warrior hosts—
Following the bloody steps of Attila!
I saw the smoke rise when he touched the towns
That lay, outposted, in his ravenous reach;
Then, in their island of deep waters,* saw
A gallant band defy him to his face,
And drive him out, with his fair vessels wrecked
And charred with flames, into the sea again.
“Ah, this is Venice!” I said proudly—“queen
Whose haughty spirit none shall subjugate.”
It was the night. The great stars hung, like globes
Of gold, in purple skies, and cast their light
In palpitating ripples down the flood
That washed and gurgled through the silent streets—
White-bordered now with marble palaces.
It was the night. I saw a grey-haired man,
Sitting alone in a dark convent-porch—
In beggar's garments, with a kingly face,
And eyes that watched for dawnlight anxiously—
A weary man, who could not rest nor sleep.
I heard him muttering prayers beneath his breath,
And once a malediction—while the air
Hummed with the soft, low psalm-chants from within.
And then, as grey gleams yellowed in the east,
I saw him bend his venerable head,
Creep to the door, and knock.
Again I saw
The long-drawn billows breaking on the land,
And galleys rocking in the summer noon.
The old man, richly retinued, and clad
In princely robes, stood there, and spread his arms,
And cried, to one low-kneeling at his feet,
“Take thou my blessing with thee, O my son!
And let this sword, wherewith I gird thee, smite
The impious tyrant-king, who hath defied,
Dethroned, and exiled him who is as Christ.
The Lord be good to thee, my son, my son,
For thy most righteous dealing!”
And again
'Twas that long slip of land betwixt the sea
And still lagoons of Venice—curling waves
Flinging light, foamy spray upon the sand.
The noon was past, and rose-red shadows fell
Across the waters. Lo! the galleys came
To anchorage again—and lo! the Duke
Yet once more bent his noble head to earth,
And laid a victory at the old man's feet,
Praying a blessing with exulting heart.
“This day, my well-belovèd, thou art blessed,
And Venice with thee, for St. Peter's sake.
And I will give thee, for thy bride and queen,
The sea which thou hast conquered. Take this ring,
As sign of her subjection, and thy right
To be her lord for ever.”
Once again
I saw that old man,—in the vestibule
Of St. Mark's fair cathedral,—circled round
With cardinals and priests, ambassadors
And the noblesse of Venice—richly robed
In papal vestments, with the triple crown
Gleaming upon his brows. There was a hush:—
I saw a glittering train come sweeping on,
From the blue water and across the square,
Thronged with an eager multitude,—the Duke,
And with him Barbarossa, humbled now,
And fain to pray for pardon. With bare heads,
They reached the church, and paused. The Emperor knelt,
Casting away his purple mantle—knelt,
And crept along the pavement, as to kiss
Those feet, which had been weary twenty years
With his own persecutions. And the Pope
Lifted his white haired, crowned, majestic head,
And trod upon his neck,—crying out to Christ,
“Upon the lion and adder shalt thou go—
The dragon shalt thou tread beneath thy feet!”
The vision changed. Sweet incense-clouds rose up
From the cathedral altar, mix'd with hymns
And solemn chantings, o'er ten thousand heads;
And ebbed and died away along the aisles.
I saw a train of nobles—knights of France—
Pass 'neath the glorious arches through the crowd,
And stand, with halo of soft, coloured light
On their fair brows—the while their leader's voice
Rang through the throbbing silence like a bell.
“Signiors, we come to Venice, by the will
Of the most high and puissant lords of France,
To pray you look with your compassionate eyes
Upon the Holy City of our Christ—
Wherein He lived, and suffered, and was lain
Asleep, to wake in glory, for our sakes—
By Paynim dogs dishonoured and defiled!
Signiors, we come to you, for you are strong.
The seas which lie betwixt that land and this
Obey you. O have pity! See, we kneel—
Our Masters bid us kneel—and bid us stay
Here at your feet until you grant our prayers!”
Wherewith the knights fell down upon their knees,
And lifted up their supplicating hands.
Lo! the ten thousand people rose as one,
And shouted with a shout that shook the domes
And gleaming roofs above them—echoing down,
Through marble pavements, to the shrine below,
Where lay the miraculous body of their Saint
(Shed he not heavenly radiance as he heard?—
Perfuming the damp air of his secret crypt),
And cried, with an exceeding mighty cry,
“We do consent! We will be pitiful!”
The thunder of their voices reached the sea,
And thrilled through all the netted water-veins
Of their rich city. Silence fell anon,
Slowly, with fluttering wings, upon the crowd;
And then a veil of darkness.
And again
The filtered sunlight streamed upon those walls,
Marbled and sculptured with divinest grace;
Again I saw a multitude of heads,
Soft-wreathed with cloudy incense, bent in prayer—
The heads of haughty barons, armed knights,
And pilgrims girded with their staff and scrip,
The warriors of the Holy Sepulchre.
The music died away along the roof;
The hush was broken—not by him of France—
By Enrico Dandolo, whose grey head
Venice had circled with the ducal crown.
The old man looked down, with his dim, wise eyes,
Stretching his hands abroad, and spake. “Seigneurs,
My children, see—your vessels lie in port
Freighted for battle. And you, standing here,
Wait but the first fair wind. The bravest hosts
Are with you, and the noblest enterprise
Conceived of man. Behold, I am grey-haired,
And old and feeble. Yet am I your lord.
And, if it be your pleasure, I will trust
My ducal seat in Venice to my son,
And be your guide and leader.”
When they heard,
They cried aloud, “In God's name, go with us!”
And the old man, with holy weeping, passed
Adown the tribune to the altar-steps;
And, kneeling, fixed the cross upon his cap.
A ray of sudden sunshine lit his face—
The grand, grey, furrowed face—and lit the cross,
Until it twinkled like a cross of fire.
“We shall be safe with him,” the people said,
Straining their wet, bright eyes; “and we shall reap
Harvests of glory from our battle-fields!”
Anon there rose a vapour from the sea—
A dim white mist, that thickened into fog.
The campanile and columns were blurred out,
Cathedral domes and spires, and colonnades
Of marble palaces on the Grand Canal.
Joy-bells rang sadly and softly—far away;
Banners of welcome waved like wind-blown clouds;
Glad shouts were muffled into mournful wails.
A Doge was come to be enthroned and crowned,—
Not in the great Bucentaur—not in pomp;
The water-ways had wandered in the mist,
And he had tracked them, slowly, painfully,
From San Clemente to Venice, in a frail
And humble gondola. A Doge was come;
But he, alas! had missed his landing-place,
And set his foot upon the blood-stained stones
Betwixt the blood-red columns. Ah, the sea—
The bride, the queen—she was the first to turn
Against her passionate, proud, ill-fated lord!
Slowly the sea-fog melted, and I saw
Long, limp dead bodies dangling in the sun.
Two granite pillars towered on either side,
And broad blue waters glittered at their feet.
“These are the traitors,” said the people; “they
Who, with our Lord the Duke, would overthrow
The government of Venice.”
And anon,
The doors about the palace were made fast.
A great crowd gathered round them, with hushed breath
And throbbing pulses. And I knew their lord,
The Duke Faliero, knelt upon his knees,
On the broad landing of the marble stairs
Where he had sworn the oath he could not keep—
Vexed with the tyrannous oligarchic rule
That held his haughty spirit netted in,
And cut so keenly that he writhed and chafed
Until he burst the meshes—could not keep!
I watched and waited, feeling sick at heart;
And then I saw a figure, robed in black—
One of their dark, ubiquitous, supreme
And fearful tribunal of Ten—come forth,
And hold a dripping sword-blade in the air.
“Justice has fallen on the traitor! See,
His blood has paid the forfeit of his crime!”
And all the people, hearing, murmured deep,
Cursing their dead lord, and the council, too,
Whose swift, sure, heavy hand had dealt his death.
Then came the night, all grey and still and sad.
I saw a few red torches flare and flame
Over a little gondola, where lay
The headless body of the traitor Duke,
Stripped of his ducal vestments. Floating down
The quiet waters, it passed out of sight,
Bearing him to unhonoured burial.
And then came mist and darkness.
Lo! I heard
The shrill clang of alarm-bells, and the wails
Of men and women in the wakened streets.
A thousand torches flickered up and down,
Lighting their ghastly faces and bare heads;
The while they crowded to the open doors
Of all the churches—to confess their sins,
To pray for absolution, and a last
Lord's Supper—their viaticum, whose death
Seemed near at hand—ay, nearer than the dawn.
“Chioggia is fall'n!” they cried, “and we are lost!”
Anon I saw them hurrying to and fro,
With eager eyes and hearts and blither feet—
Grave priests, with warlike weapons in their hands,
And delicate women, with their ornaments
Of gold and jewels for the public fund—
Mix'd with the bearded crowd, whose lives were given,
With all they had, to Venice in her need.
No more I heard the wailing of despair,—
But great Pisani's blithe word of command,
The dip of oars, and creak of beams and chains,
And ring of hammers in the arsenal.
“Venice shall ne'er be lost!” her people cried—
Whose names were worthy of the Golden Book—
“Venice shall ne'er be conquered!”
And anon
I saw a scene of triumph—saw the Doge,
In his Bucentaur, sailing to the land—
Chioggia behind him blackened in the smoke,
Venice before, all banners, bells, and shouts
Of passionate rejoicing! Ten long months
Had Genoa waged that war of life and death;
And now—behold the remnant of her host,
Shrunken and hollow-eyed and bound with chains—
Trailing their galleys in the conqueror's wake!
Once more the tremulous waters, flaked with light;
A covered vessel, with an armèd guard—
A yelling mob on fair San Giorgio's isle,
And ominous whisperings in the city squares.
Carrara's noble head bowed down at last,
Beaten by many storms,—his golden spurs
Caught in the meshes of a hidden snare!
“O Venice!” I cried, “where is thy great heart
And honourable soul?”
And yet once more
I saw her—the gay Sybaris of the world—
The rich voluptuous city—sunk in sloth.
I heard Napoleon's cannon at her gates,
And her degenerate nobles cry for fear.
I saw at last the great Republic fall—
Conquered by her own sickness, and with scarce
A noticeable wound—I saw her fall!
And she had stood above a thousand years!
O Carlo Zeno! O Pisani! Sure
Ye turned and groaned for pity in your graves.
I saw the flames devour her Golden Book
Beneath the rootless “Tree of Liberty;”
I saw the Lion's legend blotted out,
For “rights of men”—unutterable wrongs!—
Dandolo's brazen horses borne away—
The venerable Bucentaur, with its wealth
Of glorious recollections, broken up.
I heard the riotous clamour; then the change
To passionate minor cadence—then the sad
And hopeless silence settle down; and then—
I woke. The flickering water-gleam was gone
From off the ceiling, and white snows of light
Fell softly on the marble walls and floors,
And on the yellow head of little Kate
Musingly bent down from the balcony.
The lapping of the tide—the dip of oars—
The sad, sweet songs, and sadder city bells,
Mellowly borne along the water-streets:—
The swirl and ripple around lumbering keels
Of heavy, slow, Rialto market-boats,
Adown the broad and misty highway, lit
With moonbeams and the far-strown light of lamps,
Following the track of vanished gondolas:—
The flutter of a fig-leaf in the wind,
A faded fig-leaf, flapping faded walls,
With faded, crumbling, delicate sculpture-crusts:—
The voice of dreaming Katie crooning out
A snatch of melody that the Austrian band
Played in San Marco's Place some hours agone,
While patriots, neath their shadowy colonnades,
Sauntered, and shut their ears, and ate their hearts:—
A measured footstep, pacing to and fro—
The brush of two strong hands upon my brows—
The tenor-music of dear English lips,
Whispering, between two kisses, cheerily,
“Wake up, my wife; Nina has brought our tea:”—
These were the sounds that called me back to life.
Rialto (Rivo alto)
Ada Cambridge
Rice is harvested in the background as Bhujangi Fateh Singh offers ardas (prayer of supplication), praying for Punjabis to shift to other crops and prevent desertification. Flood irrigation, heavy use of fertilizers & pesticides and stubble burning amount to a brutal assault on the environment...we are sounding our own death knell...
© 2010 Gurbir Singh Brar, all rights reserved.
This image is not available for use on websites, blogs or other media without the explicit written permission of the photographer.
This beautiful and impressive bronze statue is very expressive. Are those outstretched arms an indication of supplication, grief or welcome?
Woodlawn Cemetery, The Bronx
Out of the depths I have cried to Thee O Lord! Lord, hear my voice. Let Thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication.
If Thou, O Lord! wilt mark iniquities: Lord, who shall abide it? For with Thee there is mercy: and by reason of Thy law I have waited on Thee, O Lord!
My soul hath relied on His word: my soul hath hoped in the Lord. From the morning watch even until night:
let Israel hope in the Lord. For with the Lord there is mercy; and with Him plentiful Redemption. And He will redeem Israel from all his iniquities.
Eternal rest give unto them, O Lord! And let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace.
Amen.
V. Lord, hear my prayer.
R. And let my cry come unto Thee.
Bless, O my God! the repose I am about to take, that, renewing my strength, I may be better enabled to serve Thee. Pour down Thy blessings, O Lord! on my parents, relations, friends, and enemies. Protect the Pope, our Bishop, and all the Pastors of Thy holy Church. Assist the poor and the afflicted, and those who are now in their last agony. Look with an eye of pity on the suffering souls in purgatory, particularly members of my family. Put an end to their torments, and lead them forth into everlasting joy.
This is a favorite shot of John. It's soft on the face but I like it anyway. Dark Star Orchestra played Club Cinema in Pompano, Florida. They performed a Grateful Dead show from October 20, 1978 at Winterland in San Francisco, CA . John plays Jerry incredibly.
www.archive.org/details/dso2009-01-31.spyder9.flac16
101. New Minglewood Blues
102. They Love Each Other
103. Cassidy
104. Dire Wolf
105. El Paso
106. Tennessee Jed
107. Its All Over Now
108. Loser
109. Lazy Lightning >
110. Supplication
Disc 2: (48:22)
201. Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodledoo >
202. Franklin's Tower
203. Dancing in the Street >
204. Drums >
205. Space >
Disc 3: (59:23)
301. Not Fade Away >
302. Black Peter
303. Around and Around
304. E: Johnny B. Goode
305. E: Shakedown Street
306. E: Gloria 1
Dyana (cristalle.karami) finally made it to the Sept, despite all the activities having been long gone. She'd been ill and not able to join the masses to wish the king well on his transition off this mortal coil. That she was finally able to return to the Sept was one burden off of her soul, as she felt a duty to come here despite the fact that she was foreign and it was not of her faith. But as she had just explained to Patrek Rivers, she was committed to honoring the customs of the land she was in.
The Sept was quiet as a tomb. The septons and the people of faith had been milling around in the library or other corners of the hall, not paying much attention to the sole visitor who had seemingly come to worship inside the sacred hall. Their indifference was welcome, lest they find her presence to be profane. She'd do what she came to do.
Dyana emerged from the foyer only to be faced once again with the Stranger, whose back was turned to the other six gods. The Stranger had a sizeable pile of offerings at his feet. She laid a coin there too and lit a candle for her departed kinsman. It was said that this one led the newly deceased to the other world, or those who were outcast might find some comfort in the Stranger. Well, both applied. Dyana knelt quietly after lighting the candle, closing her eyes to contemplate the king.
She wept, shedding a few tears - mostly for the lost opportunity, more than the man himself. He had spurned her attempt to know him, at first, but had regretted it afterward and extended his kindness to her to invite her to participate in the festivities for his son. Though she'd gone, she'd never gotten close enough to maintain the level of privacy she'd desired and hangers-on always swirled about him. She had wanted naught but his time, and now that was lost, the highest cost of the war against the Ironborn.
After wiping the misty trails from her cheeks, she composed herself enough to petition their gods for his safe passage to the other world, and for peace in the realm. Her lips parted and silently moved as she prayed for the Stranger to cease his seemingly insatiable culling, for at least a little while. For Daeron to have the chance to have a stable new beginning. For hearts to soften toward the outcast - herself, Nymora, and Patrek all came to mind.
In this moment, she hoped that these gods were actually real and that this prayer would do some good. If they weren't, she'd merely have done the kind gesture and her conscience was clear.
She gathered up her skirts to leave, picking up her guard whom she'd left outside and returning to her quarters where she would bare herself before her own unnamed god to render her supplication once more.
Photo taken in Right of Conquest.
I feel its anguish deeply as it begs for the sufferance of humanity to end. In Previous years I thought it a supplication for saving our environment. What is your thought?
Lord, hearken unto my voice; {N}
let Thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.
(Psalms 130: 1-2)
Another shot of fashion model Jonathon Malaer.
Jonathon Malaer MM # 2392841- Facebook - www.facebook.com/JonathanMalaer
Lit with a Calumet 750r, bowens pack, and socked PLM firing straight down.
Prayer
I am not happy with how I have processed this. If anyone has any ideas, please do let me know.
Union Pacific's MNPWC 02 passes the Temple Rock Amphitheater in the Supplication Hills near Echo, Utah on Feb. 4, 2022.
The city’s most unusual market lies along Calles Jiménez and Linares between Sagárnaga and Av Mariscal Santa Cruz, amid lively tourist artesanías (stores selling locally handcrafted items). What is on sale isn’t witchcraft as depicted in horror films; the merchandise is herbal and folk remedies, plus a few more unorthodox ingredients intended to supplicate the various spirits of the Aymará world.
Here you'll find ingredients like dried toucan beaks, intended to cure ills and protect supplicants from bad spirits. If you’re building a new house you can buy a llama fetus to bury beneath the cornerstone as a cha’lla (offering) to Pachamama (Mother Earth). If you're feeling ill or being pestered by bothersome spooks, you can purchase a plateful of colorful herbs, seeds and assorted critter parts to remedy the problem. As you pass the market stalls, watch for wandering yatiris (traditional healers), who wear dark hats and carry coca pouches, and offer (mainly to locals) fortune-telling services.
Inquiries and photographs taken here may be met with unpleasantness – ask politely first.
They have started little bit earlier for home to avoid the rush. While entering at Airport Station the Final Supplication was started at The Bishwa Ijtema in Tongi. The devotees started their supplication on board.
"The Bishwa Ijtema (or Bishsho Istema, Bengali: বিশ্ব এসতেমা, the World or Global Congregation or Meeting) is an annual Tablighi Jamaat Islamic movement congregation held at Tongi, Bangladesh by the river Turag. It is the 2nd largest Muslim congregation in the world after the holy Hajj. The event focuses on prayers and supplication and does not allow political discussion. The local police estimated the number of attendees of 2007 ijtema to be 3 million[2] while in 2010 the number of attendees was 5 million." Wikipedia
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January 13, 2013. (13/365)
The Marble relief of St. Menas represents him standing in supplication between two parched camels, wearing the Roman soldier's costume and a cloak on his shoulders.
Menas of Egypt, a martyr and wonder-worker, is one of the most well-known Coptic saints in the East and the West, due to the many miracles attributed to his intercession and prayers. Menas was a Coptic soldier in the Roman army who was martyred because he refused to recant his Christian faith. The common date of his commemoration is November 11, 13 days later (November 24) on the Julian calendar.
His feast day is celebrated annually on 15 Hathor in the Coptic Orthodox Church of Alexandria, corresponding to November 24 on the Gregorian Calendar. In Eastern Orthodox churches that follow the old style or Julian calendar, it is likewise celebrated on November 24. In the Eastern Orthodox churches that follow the new style or Revised Julian calendar, and in the Catholic Church, it is celebrated on November 11.
Marble
No. 22273
6th Century AD
Coptic Art in the Graeco-Roman Museum
Alexandria Egypt
She stood at a dark corner at the relatively small, not well lightened, and very crowded hall where Jesus's cross stood (Calvary or Golgotha) at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. She seemed disconnected from the stream of moved pilgrims. She prayed very silently, in an introverted manner; pausing for some time, and then returning her prayer. I think she is an Ethiopian nun. Who knows what was on her heart, and whether she felt a relief by the end of her visit?
Lost unregenerate men know nothing of this struggle!
(Frank Hall)
"For the flesh lusts against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh; and these are contrary to one another, so that you cannot do the things that you would." Galatians 5:17
In this one verse the apostle Paul describes the thing that continually plagues every Christian.
We, as the people of God, desire more than anything to love God perfectly, but can't.
We long to cease from sin and ungodliness, but can't.
We strive to worship our God with our entire being, but can't.
We try to do good and honor God in all things, but can't.
Why do we continually do, say, feel, and think things that are evil?
Why are we so hard-hearted, unforgiving, and ignorant?
Why can't we do what we desire most?
It's because we have two natures called . . .
flesh and spirit,
sin and righteousness,
Adam and Christ.
We do indeed believe our God, but not as we would.
We do love our Savior, but not as we would.
We do live for His honor and glory, but not as we would.
Our flesh won't allow us. It always interferes. It keeps us from doing the things that we would. When we would do good--then evil is present with us.
Our most fervent faith, is mixed with unbelief.
Our most selfless sacrifices, are mixed with selfishness.
Our most ardent prayers and supplications, are marred by our infirmities.
Our most spiritual moments, are contaminated by our sickening carnality.
Our meekest hours of submission and dependence on God, are corrupted by our self-will and pride.
Every mountain top experience of spiritual pleasure, is tinged with shameful wanderings within.
Our clearest views of Christ are darkened by error, misconceptions, and preconceived notions.
Even when our hearts seem to be most fixed on God's glory, they are torn between this world and the next.
The reality is, that as long as we live in this world--we will be at war within ourselves! The flesh will not submit to the Spirit--and the Spirit will not submit to the flesh. We will be . . .
pulled this way one moment--and that way the next;
believing one moment--and doubting the next;
praising God in the morning--then murmuring at night;
seeking God's will today--and our will tomorrow.
As long as we live in this body of flesh there will be a constant struggle within us--a struggle between flesh and Spirit.
Lost unregenerate men know nothing of this struggle! This internal warfare is peculiar to believers. Unbelieving, unregenerate, impenitent, rebellious, lost sinners know nothing of this fight with SELF. They don't loathe themselves as all believers do; they love themselves. They have but one nature--and that is sin, which rules in their hearts supremely. Lost men do not have grace within, to oppose the works and motions of the flesh. All they have is a nature that is dead in trespasses and sin, that walks according to the course of this world.
The struggle doesn't begin within a man, until that man is born of God's Spirit and given the gift of life and faith in Christ.
This war between our flesh and Spirit is best for us. If it were not so, then God would not allow it. God is in control of this fight, and has ordained it for us in His infinite wisdom and grace. This constant battle within our hearts is good for us, because it keeps us looking to Christ--ever seeking Him, His grace, His help, His power. This lifelong fight will make the prize that much sweeter--when Jesus will present us "to Himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless!" Ephesians 5:27
~ ~ ~ ~
🔪🌵🔪[Cherishville Summer]🔪🌵🔪
Another fantastic build from from Lam Erin &
Azaria******♥
Freshly back from road trip from California to Tennessee on Hwy 40 (Historic Hwy 66) This sim nails the vib perfectly. So much fun to be had here!
I know there is a personal metaphor in this image somewhere!
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🎶[Girls From Texas (Ry Cooder)] 🎶
Well, I met a girl from Texas 'bout a year ago
Hadn't known her for too long when I had to let her go
You see, she had a razor, was ten inches or so
And every night you'd hear her knocking at my door
She said, "Baby, I'll give you the clothes on my back
You can have everything that I've got in my shack
But if you ever try to leave they'll take your out in sack
'Cause me and my razor will see to that"
That's the way the girls are from Texas
That's the way the girls are from Texas
That's the way the girls are from Texas
I thought about my situation, decided not to tarry
For my own self preservation I decided we should marry
When the preacher started reading 'bout till death do us part
I told him, "Skip it, we had that understanding right from the start"
That's the way the girls are from Texas
That's the way the girls are from Texas (Houston to San Antone)
That's the way the girls are from Texas (Got to love 'em right or leave 'em alone)
Well, we settled down, got me a little old job, '65 Fairlane Ford
Every Friday night I would stop in and cash my pay check down at the grocery store
They had a little girl worked in there, must have been about seventeen
She was the cutest thing I had ever seen
It's the same old story and I'm afraid it wasn't too very long
Before we had fallen deeply in love and I knew it was wrong
I said baby, we got to stop this thing right here
Or my woman is gonna cut my throat from ear to ear, that's right
In tearful supplication, she looked up in my face
I could feel her heart was breaking as these sad words she did say
"You should have told me you was married, baby
She pulled out a forty-five and let me have it, right smack between the eyes
That's the way the girls are from Texas
That's the way the girls are from Texas
That's the way the girls are from Texas
She was guilty, I was dead
Now, what'd you think that the old judge said?
"Ah, that's just the way the girls are down here in Texas
Case dismissed!"
That's the way the girls are from Texas
That's the way the girls are from Texas (Houston to San Antone)
That's the way the girls are from Texas (Got to love 'em right or leave 'em alone, boy)
- Clifford Chambers / Jimmy Holiday / James E Lewis
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🐕 💝 1095 Days 💝 🐈
💗 Hope 💗
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Buckle up Buttercup!
"Party of Law & Order".... My Ass
Let's close CDC public access, because who needs to know about the shit that kills you.
Who in the hell thought giving the keys to the treasury to a billionaire man child and his little incel posse was a good idea?!?!
Fuck Putin & his Orange Bitch 🌻💙💛🌻
Just a reminder, a "Tariff" is in fact tax on all consumers no matter who you voted for. I like Tequila 🇲🇽 & Maple Syrup 🇨🇦
How's your 401k doing? Because mine is sucking the spiny cock of Satin ATM
Real pro move to close the Department of Education, because who wants a educated population.
Can you kind people give me a minute please, I am on a secret government war plan unsecured text chain.
Holy Shit! What a week, 3 days to blow up the economy envied by the world....Good job Dumb Fuck.
A attack on due process of any individual, is an attack on all individuals.
1348 Days Of Suck To Go ...... Day 112
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iMac
Firestorm Beta Version 7.1.13.78086 (7.1.13.78086)
The Tools
Ratio 23:9
LUMIIPro: Yes
AnyPose: No
LeLutka Axis HUD : Yes
Photo Tools:
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SEW : -
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FL: 25
Haze Horizon: 0.43
Haze Density: 0.39
Cloud Coverage: 0.25
Cloud Scale: 0.53
Refection Code Ambiance: 0.53
HDR Scale: 0.90
Photopea Tools
Filter: Dither
Flickr Tools
Filter: None
Blur: No
Brightness: 0
Saturation: +20
Contrast: +3
Gamma: +10
Clarity: +5
Exposure: 0
Shadows: -5
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Strange really
seeing stark ,
black dead trees;
clumps of death
limbs raised in supplication.,
life's blood sucked out,
where broken branches
spike the sky.
aa gallagher 1995
A three image in portrait mode stitch, the original a mega huge file, the old Mac groaned a bit to process until scaled down for the web..:)
The Bishwa Ijtema 2018
The Bishwa Ijtema (Global Congregation) is an annual gathering of Muslims in Tongi, by the banks of the River Turag, in the outskirts of Dhaka, Bangladesh. It is one of the largest peaceful gatherings in the world. The Ijtema is a prayer meeting spread over three days, during which attending devotees perform daily prayers while listening to scholars reciting and explaining verses from the Quran. It culminates in the Akheri Munajat, or the Concluding Supplication (Final Prayer) in which millions of devotees raise their hands in front of Allah (God) and pray for world peace. The Ijtema is considered a demonstration of Muslim unity, solidarity, mutual love and respect and an opportunity to reiterate their commitment to Islamic values The Ijtema is non-political and therefore it draws people of all persuasion. It is attended by devotees from 150 countries. The majority of its devotees come from across Bangladesh, the world's third largest Muslim majority country.