Abba, the world too much
   Is with me day to day:
   I'll walk the narrow way
Homeward, my cross in clutch.  

Order my steps, my LORD,
   Behind Him (step by step),
   My Savior, while I schlep
My cross and shield and sword.

The Sonne of God my shepheard is:
                I am
                His lambe.
I shall not want, for I am His.

He leadeth me to tender grasse
                Where I
                Do lie,
And where still waters gently passe.

He doth restore (and therein blesse)
                My soule,
                Makes whole
My finely shatter'd brokennesse.

My comfort is His staffe and rod:
                They prove
                The love
And mercy of the Sonne of God.

For His names sake, my shepheard leades
                His keepe
                Of sheepe
Through righteous wayes 'twixt thornes and weedes.  

Yea, though I walke through Deaths blacke vale
                Of shade,
                Affrayd
I'm not, for Thou dost leade my trayle.  

Sith Thou art with me, Lord, no feare
                I'll have:
                I'll brave
Evil with ease and eke good cheare.

Thou dost prepare, amid my foes,
                My food:
                Renew'd
I am, and my cuppe overflowes.

Thou dost with oyle anoint mine head,
                Dost poure
                It o'er
The living head that once was dead.

Surely goodnesse and mercy shall
                With me
                E'er be,
For Thou'rt my home and life and all.

Betrayal being Satan's favorite game,
He lures with promises of ill-gained fame.
His minions rise in rank (and further fall),
Each thinking that they're favored over all.
But Satan rather most delights to roast
Those servant-fools who do for him the most.

The tree of life is watered with her tears
Who mourns the Word of God denied by fools.
She weeps amid the sounds of jests and jeers:
While mockers mock she sheds her sorrow's jewels.
Her jewels return to dust whence all jewels come.
Rivers of burning tears run rapid, fed
By bottomless wells of grief; the ****** scrum
Disgracefully disports before the dead.
Her bleeding broken heart begins to quake.
It breaks the earth and splits it. Streams of blood
Divine and tears the purest form a lake,
Pooling with torment, heaven, hell, and mud.
Within her heart a sea of bitterness swells.
Her grief, the ocean's roar, resounds in shells.

The day is done;
The summer sun
    Has set.
In quiet nests
Soft lovebirds' *******
     Duet.

My fledgling faith
Will soon defy death,
     Ascend,
And fly about
A day without
     An end.

Good morning, God.
The dawning day
Chases night's ghosts
     Away.
The heralds of morn,
The early birds,
Are singing songs
     With words.

Good God, who sees
Each every squirm,
And gives the bird
     The worm,
Give us this day
Our daily bread
(And light and life)
     Instead.

How doth the merry little lamb
     Whose fleece is white as snow,
And who was born a very ram,
     A-frolic to and fro.

He sports and plays, doth safely graze,
     And spots a busy bee;
And for a moment he doth chase
     The bug with mirthful glee.

A moment more, he's crying out,
     And bleating with dismay.
The bee has stung him on the snout
     And marred his splendid day!

Beware, the bee is only friend
     To others of his kind.
The stinger on his latter end
     Was made for lambs to mind.