Mosque Poems Quotes

We don’t find God in temples and cathedrals. We don’t find Him by standing on a prayer rug or sitting in a pew. God appears when we love someone other than ourselves. And we continue to feel His presence when we do good for others. Because God is not found in mosques and synagogues. He resides in our hearts.

Build a far mosque where you can read your soul-book and listen to the dreams that grew in the night.

I went to the mosque, went to the church, nowhere did I find a trace of divinity. Then I came and stood in front of you, all that is divine manifested in font of me.

God doesn't listen to me too, but people have their suspicions. सुनता तो रब हमारी भी नहीं, पर लोगों को अल्लाह पे शक बेशक है

Our Butkara ruins were a magical place to play hide-and-seek. Once some foreign archaeologists arrived to do some work there and told us that in times gone by it was a place of pilgrimage, full of beautiful temples domed with gold where Buddhist kings lay buried. My father wrote a poem, “The Relics of Butkara,” which summed up perfectly how temple and mosque could exist side by side: “When the voice of truth rises from the minarets, / The Buddha smiles, / And the broken chain of history reconnects.

Would You Think It Odd? Would you think it odd if Hafiz said, “I am in love with every church And mosque And temple And any kind of shrine Because I know it is there That people say the different names Of the One God.” Would you tell your friends I was a bit strange if I admitted I am indeed in love with every mind And heart and body. O I am sincerely Plumb crazy About your every thought and yearning And limb Because, my dear, I know That it is through these That you search for Him.

Rumi tells of Solomon's practice of building each dawn a place made of intention and compassion and sohbet (mystical conversation). He calls it the "far mosque." Solomon goes there to listen to the plants, the new ones that come up each morning. They tell him of their medicinal qualities, their potential for health, and also the dangers of poisoning.

The Only Sin I Know If someone sits with me And we talk about the Beloved, If I cannot give his heart comfort, If I cannot make him feel better About himself and this world, Then, Hafiz, Quickly run to the mosque and pray— For you have just committed The only sin I know.

Islamic art in its many forms is of the greatest import for the understanding of the essence of Islam and a central means of transmitting its message to the contemporary world. When one thinks of Islam, one should go beyond the repetitive scenes on television of wars and battles, which unfortunately abound in today’s world, to behold the peace and harmony of Islamic art seen in the great mosques, traditional urban settings and gardens, and the rhythm and geometry of calligraphy and arabesque designs; read in the poems that sing of the love that permeates all of God’s creation and binds creatures to God; and heard in the strains of melodies that echo what we had experienced in that primordial morn preceding creation and our descent into this lowly world. Today more than ever before, the understanding of Islamic art is an indispensable key for the comprehension of Islam itself. Those who are sensitive to the language of traditional art and the beauty of a paradisal order that emanates from it as well as the intellectual principles conveyed through it can learn much from this art.

The secret of life, the garden of blissful hopes The token of reliance, the bliss of all generations The hymn of the soul, striking the strings of the hearts when children sing it, like nightingales The song of life, that makes flower buds open towards life, smiling, full of hope O my Mother, how sweet is (the taste of) mentioning you on my tongue Whenever you are mentioned, I begin to chant, raising you above the skies How often did you wake until dawn the night, so that I may spend the night in comfort How much efforts tired you so that I may be safe and well guided. This is an excerpt from a poem that the great scholar Sheikh Ibrahim al-Yaqoubi wrote for his children in the year 1970, and taught his som Muhammad Abul Huda al-Yaqoubi when he was in 3rd grade, on the occasion of a school celebration for the wefare of the children, held in the vecinity of the Umaya Mosque in Damascus. سر الحياة وروضةُ الآمال رمزُ الوفاء سعادة الأجيال أنشودةٌ للروح رددها على وتر الفؤاد بلابلُ الأطفال نغمُ الحياة به تفتّح زهرُها في الكون مبتسما عن الآمال أمي فما أحلاك لفظا في فمي أشدو بذكرك دائما وأغالي كم قد سهرت لكي أبيت منعما كم قد تعبت لراحتي ودلالي وهي قطعة من قصيدة نظمها العلامة الكبير سنة ١٩٧٠ لأولاده، وألقاها ابنه الشيخ محمد أبو الهدى وكان في الصف الثالث آنذاك في احتفال المدرسة الغراء سعادة الأبناء بجوارالجامع الأموي

The mainland of Greece was dark; and somewhere off Euboea a cloud must have touched the waves and spattered them—the dolphins circling deeper and deeper into the sea. Violent was the wind now rushing down the Sea of Marmara between Greece and the plains of Troy. In Greece and the uplands of Albania and Turkey, the wind scours the sand and the dust, and sows itself thick with dry particles. And then it pelts the smooth domes of the mosques, and makes the cypresses, standing stiff by the turbaned tombstones of Mohammedans, creak and bristle. Sandra’s veils were swirled about her. “I will give you my copy,” said Jacob. “Here. Will you keep it?” (The book was the poems of Donne.) Now the agitation of the air uncovered a racing star. Now it was dark. Now one after another lights were extinguished. Now great towns—Paris—Constantinople—London—were black as strewn rocks. Waterways might be distinguished. In England the trees were heavy in leaf. Here perhaps in some southern wood an old man lit dry ferns and the birds were startled. The sheep coughed; one flower bent slightly towards another. The English sky is softer, milkier than the Eastern. Something gentle has passed into it from the grass–rounded hills, something damp. The salt gale blew in at Betty Flanders’s bedroom window, and the widow lady, raising herself slightly on her elbow, sighed like one who realizes, but would fain ward off a little longer—oh, a little longer!—the oppression of eternity. But to return to Jacob and Sandra. They had vanished. There was the Acropolis; but had they reached it? The columns and the Temple remain; the emotion of the living breaks fresh on them year after year; and of that what remains?

Friends, the ancient word is dead; the ancient books are dead; our speech with holes like worn-out shoes is dead; our poems have gone sour; women's hair and nights have gone sour; my grieved nation, in a flash, you turned me from a poet writing for love and tenderness to a poet writing with a knife; our shouting is louder than our actions; our swords are taller than us; friends, smash the doors; wash your brains; grow words, pomegranates and grapes; sail to countries of fog and snow; nobody knows you exit in your caves; friends, we run wildly through streets; dragging people with ropes; smashing windows and locks; we praise like frogs; turn midgets into heroes; in mosques, we crouch idly; write poems and proverbs; and pray God for victory.

God is.. Not in the Himalayas He is residing In the slums, On the borders, In the beggar’s bread In the Cancer patient’s strength Do not go in search of him In the temples, churches Or mosques Gone are the days When he could peacefully Sit on his throne Listen to your prayers Wipe your tears And attend your fears Go after him If you want to be blessed Give the hungry His share of bread Add life to the life of Who is already half dead Spend that extra penny Not on your luxury But the comfort of The child shivering On the road Seek God Not on his throne Gone are the days When he was not begging on the road

In old pictures, Srinagar is elegant; latticed houses, mosques, and temples admiring each other from the banks of theriver Jhelum; people strolling on the seven wooden bridges spanning it, wandering into old bazaars selling spices, lovingly embroidered shawls and carpets, and samovars with intricate engravings, or stepping with a prayer and an expectation into a medieval shrine flaunting verses from the Quran and poems of mystics on windows and facades, and the gende greens and blues of papier mache interiors. But elegance is granted little space in an age of wars. Those wooden bridges have either collapsed or were murdered. Their skeletons remain, in the shadow of new arcs of concrete.

As Rumi says, “I looked in Temples, Churches, and Mosques. But I found the Divine in my heart.” In this poem, Rumi reminds us that God is most brilliantly reflected in the mirror of the spiritual heart, which is the seat of consciousness.

He was walking unnoticed past a Mosque, And the shouts of God's lovers Happened to fill the air, calling, "Allah, Allah! Where are you? Where are You, Beautiful One?" And the child in the womb of the Master Could not remain silent and shouted back In an astounding voice, I am Here! I am Here-dear world! The crowd in the mosque became frantic, And they picked up shoes, clubs, and stones. You know what then happened= The story becomes grim. But the moon cannot hold a grudge. It still stops by some nights And leans over this gentle earth, as over a crib, And gives a full, wet kiss. For the moon knows That God is always amorous- He will never stop making Love, For the Truth has been Divinely Conceived Deeply within each of us.