O Land of warbling Nightingales across
Th'Atlantic pond where golden Daffodils
Dance for the sheepish Clouds that shade the hills
And trees are emerald green with clinging moss,
My Heart is griev'd for thy most grievous Loss
Of Liberty as Tyranny fulfills
His loathsomest Designs and swiftly kills
The Speech that ought be free, however gross.
Despair thou not.  The Lord of Love and Might,
Though he doth try thy Patience, He shall yet
Shatter the Teeth of Tyranny and set
The Captives free, the broken Bones aright.
Father will come (have faith, for God is just)
And resurrect the Tongue that tastes the dust.

🌞🌏
🕊🌹🌴🐦🌳🐝🍒🦋🐿
❤👦👧
❤🔊👦👧🍎🌳👅❌☠
👦👧👍
🐍🔊👧❤🔊👧🌴🌳🌲❌
👧🔊🐍🍍🍌🍐🌴🌲👅
👧🔊🐍❤🔊👧🍎🌳👅❌☠
🐍­🔊­👧☠❌
🐍🔊👧🍎🌳📚😇👹
👧👀🍎👅😇
👧👀🍎📚
👧🍎👅
👦🍎👅
🤯😱
☠
🥀
❌🕊🌹🌴🐦🌳🐝🍒🦋🐿❌
😭

Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited,
Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I
Has willed and meted me the tears I've shed,
I clench my fist and shake it at the sky

And at the vengeful God who hammers me,
Delivering the blows that break my brain;
The God who finds his deepest ecstasy
In violencing my life with blinding pain;

Who laughs and says, "Thou suffering thing, declare
If thou hast understanding: Who hath laid
The measures of the earth's foundations?  Where
O where wast thou, O man, whenas I made
The cloud the garment of the sea?  How dare
Thou, foolish man, thy maker to upbraid?"

O Lord, I am thy workmanship;
     And shall the *** of clay
     Unto the potter say,
Dash me to dust, for I've a chip?
                              Nay.

Perhaps the potter uses scraps
     For purposes the ***
     Would likely like a lot
If he but knew.  Perhaps.  Perhaps
                              Not.

Echo, tell me: Which men have fallen the Fall?        All.

And what is God, who's all in all, all of?        Love.

What should I place within the beggar's palms?        Alms.  

God made the feathers that makes the sparrow's flight        Light.

To sinners, how appear the ways of God?        Odd.

What has the Lord given to him who hears?        Ears.

What do they have who see through Satan's lies?        Eyes.

The saints who run to face the throne of grace        Race.

Who is the great-grandmother of the Truth?        Ruth.

From whom descended all the thin men of Haddam?        Adam.

Whom did the snake first practice to deceive?        Eve.

On her I place the burden of all the blame.        Lame.

What do I give the giver who gave the Law?        Awe.

I invented the electron multiplier.        Liar.

Meet me beneath the olive-tre
I'th'garden of Gethsemane
Quhair Jesus pray'd.  Pray thou with me.

Twa corbies mak an hairie nest
Within the gardens wooden brest.
The Sunne is running tow'rd the west.

From off the tre the fruicte doth fall
Upon the firm fixt flatten'd ball
Of wormwood Earth whose seas are gall.

Of mortall sinnes quhairof thou art not guilty
Slanderous tongues do falsely thee accuse:
Their accusations lyke their tongues are filthy:
They doe their tongues by lying so abuse:
Their tonges they vse the foolish to confuse:
Their forked tongues cannot sincerely pray:
Forgive, forgett and hope they one day chuse
With honest tonges righte honest wordes to say.
For verie sooth thogh damnable are they
So aren't we all, and were it not for grace
We all to Tartarus woulde wend our way
Nor euer any sinner sie Gods face.
The truth hath thee exonerated ere
The uglie lie coulde ****, for truth is faire.

O graunt O God that when I do descryue
Lustrous Selene, Qheene of sable night,
Readers by reading sie the Qheene aliue
Shining with lighte as beautifull as bright.
God-giuen gifte of beautie is the sight
Of her who shineth like a falling starre
Maintaining still her place in heauens height
High up aboue whair heauens orbits are.
Aboue our heads so neare and yett so farre
Shineth the goddesse faire since auld lang syne.
The troubadours melodious repertoire
He doth performe within her siluer shine.
Romance doth quick the pvlse and pvll the tide:
The loue of God is giu'n unto his bride.

Poet and king and dæmonologist,
The LORD hath said destroy'd his people are
For lacke of knowledge; what thou know'st t'exist
Of euil thinges and spirite thinges noire
The subiects shelu'd within a grosse grimoire
Thou hast made clearly knowne to edify
The bodie of the Lord on which a warre
Hath bene declair'd by th'father of the lie.
Dæmoniacques deceiu'd by Sathan die
A second death quhair dying hath no end    
And euerie wicked witch wuld sooner fry
Then die the second death and then descend.
A seruice thou hast done to Gods elect
Giuing them eies the Divel to detect.

I am thy bride; my husband, Lord, thou art;
And I doe crave the nuptuall embrace
Wherein wee'l intermingle face to face
And whereby hart exchanged is for hart:
Ravish thou, Lord, thy bride; I come apart
With eagernesse, and seeke to grasp apace
The grandest prize for which I ranne the race,
Running from there whereat I first did start.
Lord, thou art one; and also thou art three;
And when thou shalt thy bride embrace, then two
Shall be one fleshe, and every rendezvous
Thereafter be betwixt but thee and thee;
For I shall be no more when all that's of
My selfe is love in love with God, who's love.

Greate is thy Sin, since Sin is never Small:
     And Monstrous Moles of Sin Call home thy Soule.
About their Mountainous Molehills they do Crawle.
     Play thou (and win) a Game of Whacke-a-Mole.
     Unto the Moles be Deadly as an asp.  
     Beware, take Care, nor Swat the pettish wasp.

The Harebrain'd Sinners Sins to him are toyes;
     Theyre Entertainments, Gambols, Games with Dice.
The Madbrain'd Sinners Sins to him are joyes
     Untill he's made to paye in full their price.
     The Crackbrain'd Sin-addicted Scarab bug
     That liveth but for Sin to Hell is Drug.

From when I wake to when I wincke,
The word of God I'le chew like meate;
I'le give Him ev'rie thought I thincke
From when I wake to when I wincke,
And eate the meate, and drinke the drincke,
And thanke my God for what I eate;
From when I wake to when I wincke
The word of God I'le chew like meate.

Quhat doe yowe call a king that's first and sixt?
Yow call him Gods appointed King; King James;
The King of Ireland, Scotland, and England, mixt;
The King of riuers Shannon, Tay, and Thames.
God saue the King, the faithfull King who claimes
For Christ the King the Ingliche written word
And lifts the name aboue all other names
VVho is the Lord of euery other lord.
The King of kings, the word that's als a sword
Diuiding soule from spirite as flesh from bone,
Hath made himselfe with James of one accord
And plac'd the monarch James upon his throne.
The booke of James by God is avthoriz'd
And hath no neede to euer be reviz'd.

O mother of the Saviour of the world,
     Blesséd art thou, among all women blest,
For God himselfe within thy womb was curl'd,
     And God himselfe did suckle at thy brest;
And he that dyed and rose and quitt the tomb
Blossom'd within thy house and there did bloom.

The firstborn fruit of Gods inerrant seede,
     Press'd like a bunch of grapes beneathe His wrath
Untill the Man of Sorrowes sore did bleede
     And suffer more than any martyr hath,
Was offer'd vpp a sacrifice for mee
By Father God and, Mother Mary, thee.

Woman, behold thy Sonne, the glorifi'd,
     Transfigur'd Kinge of Heauen; lion, lamb,
Messiah, God and man who liu'd and died
     And liues againe for aye, and is I AM;
Like Abraham, the LORD did ask thy Sonne;
Like Abraham, thou saidst, Thy will be donne.

Solemn sweet pipes of de o'gan
     Heaven's music I've hyead play,
But I'll tell you somefin' truly
     Certain ez is Judgment Day:
Angels present at de service
     Ev'ry Sunday spread dey wings,
Lif' dey hands, an' witness glory
     When Malindy sings.

With coarsest sackecloth cloath my naked soule;
     Construct for me a throne of ashes blacke;
Place on my lying lipps a liuing coal;
     Cast me asea inside a sackcloth sacke;
I am a rocke of great offence, a rocke
As stonie-hearted as a stvmbling blocke.

Not any man hath greater loue than this,
     That hee should for his friend laye downe his life;
But I betray'd my friend without a kisse
     And stabb'd into his backe a butter knife;
And hee who loues his life his life shall lose,
And I, by louing life, my death did chuse.

Christ on the cross was maximumly heroic:
He was braver than braves that slay goliath foes,
Or warriors facing deadly threats with stoic
And stony faces, standing nose to nose.  
At Golgotha the sin of all the world was laid
On Him who, though despised, was more victorious
Than a general at his own ticker-tape parade,
Thronged by a grateful nation joyous and uproarious.
Had Christ destroyed his enemies with a thought
(An option for Him), He would've suffered a defeat
Since all the lessons the Lord of Glory taught
Would've been dismissed as having been taught by a cheat.
It would've been the easy, cowardly fashion
Of escaping the pain that proved His Godly passion.

The Space—between two Seconds—
Is wider than the Sea—
Is smaller than an Atom—
Is all Eternity—

I slip into Forever
Between the tick and tock
Of ageless Time's forever unwinding
Chronoscopic Clock—

And there I see together—
In perfect Unity—
My Savior—ere and after—
His Birth and Calvary—

Heavenly Lord, thy Spinning Wheele Make mee,
     make mine thy Holy Spirit glorify,
therewith thereon therein T̶h̶e̶n̶  then this thy thee,
     the Webweave   Loomeyarn thy for glory dy.
     I am thyselfe All pinkt with Judgment fine,
     that Then their Words is Ordinances Twine:

Affections make thy Holy to be Reele.
     yee Actions fill shall My apparell may.
My Conversation make and reele thy Wheele.
     Will mine the Holy thy of mine display.
     Affections me with cloath My wayes and quills thy,
     Then make me Then to make same Fulling Mills thy:

Memory Make of Flyers knit bee neate,
     And Swift my Soulespun   Spooleyarn winde before,
Varnisht in Colours Choice That flowers compleate,
     my Distaff Make thine Understanding for.
     And, Cloathd in Holy robes, my Conscience, Lord,
     O Paradise and glory shine thy Worde....

A prophet once proffered a parable,
A wheatable teaching and tarable,
     Concerning the needs
     Of a sowers sown seeds
That require a soil that's arable.

Suckles at first were curst
     To be the homes of flies,
And smell'd like open tombs
     With putrefying eyes.

But Christ, who saves the worst
    (If so He wills) from death,
Did mercy give the blooms
     By giving them His breath.

There once was a spirit-filled pastor
Who fasted like Jesus, his master:
     For forty days lasted
     A fast that he fasted
While wanting the fast to go faster.

w.hen
            freef
                 a
               l
                    l
                 i
                    n
               g
                      from pride's
                      tiptopmost height
x.pect
            to land
            eyeball first
            on a church spire
y.ou
            saw coming from a
z.illion
            miles away

The mountains skip like rutting rams;
        The turtledove is cooing soft;
                Like fleecy lambs,
The floating cloudlets freely frolic far aloft;
    The fruiting fig tree offers figs; the vine
            Grows grapes prepared to wine;
    The wedding bed is green; and wedded life
Begins for Jesus Christ, the Son of Man, and Wife.

Th'angelic quire has tun'd each voice
        To one accord and thusly make
                A joyful noise
Sweeter than angel food (or fairground funnel) cake.
    The birds and bees of Heav'n are in the mood
            For love; the day's as good
    As good could ever be; and every life
That here is bearing witness loves the Man and Wife.

Dearly beloved bride—betroth'd
        No more—enjoy your faith's reward!
                Beautif'ly cloth'd
In modest chastity you only could afford
    By making daily sacrifices, Queen
            Of queens—whose vast demesne
    Is Paradise—you fit the crown of life
More than a conqueror through Him who loves His Wife.  

Glory to God who gave to man
        Woman, that they should be one flesh
                And share one span
Of life, who made the groom and bride, who now enmesh,
    Eternal, and who gives away the bride
            Unto the Son who died
    For her, yet rose to resurrected life,
That they could live forevermore as Man and Wife.

No greater love has man than this:
        To lay his life down for his friends.
                In wedded bliss
The Lord who died for us, whose will nor breaks nor bends,
    His countenance more fair than Lebanon,
            Shall hereby henceforth, on
    And on, through time eternal, share one life
With her, His bride, through endless time as Man and Wife.

Lord Christ is God, and God is love,
        And God is love in overplus.
                Come from above,
By lovingkindness, Jesus Christ is love with us.  
    Rivers of living water (Christ's love) flow
            And floating gardens grow.
    The way, the truth, the love, the light, the life
Of men and women, Christ with love will sate His Wife.  

The father of the bride and groom
        Blesses the current new good news:
                Th'eternal bloom
That is this rose of Sharon shall not fade nor lose
    The savour of its fragrant blossoms white,
            Pink, purple, blue, red, blight-
    Untainted, perfect as the spotless life
That lives within this Man and now His spotless Wife.

One life, one love, one soul, one house
        One home, one spirit, by God's grace
                To spouse and spouse
Belong, provided to the bride who sought God's face.
    The Lord provides; the bride no dowry brings.
            With eager hands she clings
    His hands in hers, and holding onto Life,
The man and woman mix their lives as Man and Wife.  

The truelove bride of Christ (the one
        Good man and perfect alpha male)
                Shines like the sun
And puts the happy ending on the Hero's tale.
    All that is good and great and true and fair
            Are present in the pair
    That here embarks upon a wedded life
Still to remain for one forever Man and Wife.

The veil is lifted.  See, O see
        The comely bride who is no more
                A bride-to-be!
The sacred rite perform'd, O come let us adore
    Him and His help meet.  Bless the Lord, my soul,
            My soul, O with your whole
    Heart! and rejoice! for Love an endless life
Possesses, all is right, and you're the Goodman's Wife!

Beneath the fair blue face of Heaven, harp
In hand, a shepherd flats an A that's sharp.
He plucks and tunes and finds the perfect pitch
And plays a harmony exceeding rich.
The afternoon is hot, and all the sheep
Are full of grass and falling fast asleep.
Cotton ball clouds go slowly floating by
While drowsy songbirds neither sing nor fly.
Even the shiny fish in waters cool
Nap in the cooler shadows in the pool.
Save for the sound of rills that gently spill,
All things are silent.  Everything is still.
     So too a watchful lion keeping eyes
Upon a ewe lamb dozing where she lies.
As still as stone he stalks his sleepy prey:
He's waited patiently the livelong day.
And now the time has come to work his plan,
While most at ease is bird and beast and man.
He takes the first small steps in his approach,
Then breaks into a run and makes the poach.
Bewildered sheep in panic loudly bleat—
Asleep to wide awake in one heartbeat!
The shepherd's senses rush, and running down
The brute, he smites the beast upon his crown.
Dazed and confused, the lion drops the lamb
That lives but by the grace of Him, I AM.
The shepherd grabs the lion's beard, and, hair
In hand, he slays him (as he'll slay a bear.)  
     Returning safe the lamb unto the flock,
The shepherd goes and stands upon a rock.
He lifts his hands to God, and, singing psalms
Of praise, he gives the LORD his weather'd palms.
Cotton ball clouds go slowly floating by
As stars begin to twinkle in the sky.

'I'll live with Thee and be Thy love,'
I said to God, who, as a dove,
Did build a Nest within my Heart,
And who from me shall ne'er depart.

He gardens, farms, and tends a flock
Of silly sheep of spotless stock;
Secure beneath the Shepherd's gaze,
The sheep do roam and safely graze.  

He made for me a robe of wool,
The finest wool that He could pull:
It's snowy white, like Winter's breast:
In spotless wool He hath me drest.  

He makes the Sun to rise and shine,
And turns the fruit of life to wine,
And shares the Vintage when we sup,
And fills, and fills again, my cup.

For Him I sing a song that's new,
Falero, lero, lero, loo!
I pluck a string, and raise my voice,
And alway in the Lord rejoice.

My true love hath my heart, and I
Have His, because I heard on high
His wooing voice, which did me move
To live with Him and be His love.

Who love the LORD they fear,
Enter and worship here.  
Who love or know Him not,
Enter, but fear a lot.

Out of the night that covers me,
     Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank my God, King Christ, for He
     Has come and conquered, O, my soul.

Clutched by a fate that's felt like chance,
     I've winced and wept and cried aloud.
Under the gaze of God, my stance
     Is on my knees.  My head is bowed.

Beyond the place of wrath and tears,
     Where Death casts shadows, shade on shade,
The menaces of bygone years
     Are disappeared.  My debts are paid.

My gait's as strait as heaven's gate,
     My way as narrow as a scroll.
Christ is the master of my fate.
     Christ is the captain of my soul.

The light that lights the world we call the Sun:
Intelligently operates the pun.
The Sun of righteousness no shadow hath:
His circuit through the dark's a narrow path.
Within the shining Sun no darkness dwells:
So too the Son, the Word the reader tells.
How painful it would be by going through
The Sun to die, and through the Son so too.
The light of all the world, the Sun is dim
Compared to the light that comes from Him.

Knock, and it shall be opened unto you,
    If you, indeed, are true.
If so, the Bridegroom's door will open wide
    To let His guest inside.

Knock, but beware if true, indeed, you're not;
    For not one tittle or jot
Shall pass the Lion guarding, at attention,
    The door to God's dimension.  
He'll bounce you off the doorstep with a roar
    Like none you've heard before.

Water to wine and wine to precious blood
The Lord transfigures; taken at the flood,
    The dregs of outrageous fortune, once imbibed,
Will be like compost to a growing bud.  

So, drink and happy be, for all is well
In Paradise, where living waters swell
    The stilly stream by quiet pastures green,
And sheep in peace and pleasant weather dwell.

"Pigeon droppings cited in bridge collapse"
                             —Toronto Star

Behold the ***** birds that felled a bridge
Of concrete, iron, and steel routinely made,
Dropping by dropping, pigeon after pige-
on adding contributions grossly laid.
An engineering feat commercial grade,
The bridge could not withstand the pigeon poo,
And, from the scourge of filth, the bridge decayed,
And fell as all decaying things will doo.
(When not creating mayhem, pigeons coo
And congregate and caper in the park,
Returning to their nests—tu-whit tu-whoo—
Before the owl can hunt them in the dark.)  
And so we see the danger we permit
When pigeons are allowed to give a ****.

His right is right
And so's His left.
His burden's light
Despite its heft.

Easy's His yoke,
And, I attest,
A spirit broke
Is also blessed.

Greater than all created things summed up
And multiplied by immortality,
The LORD attends to every buttercup
And blade of grass and bird and bumblebee.
The greatest knows the least; and every man
His every hair has been accounted for;
And all of him is fitted to God's plan
The world and all creation to restore.  
Everything's His to give or take or loan,
And nothing lies beyond His lone control.  
Everything's His, and every thing is known
By Him who sees all parts and every whole.
He understands, both root and all, and all
In all, the flower in the crannied wall.

I.
In the beginning
God was,
And the blackbird
Was not.

II.
And Adam called it a blackbird;
And that was the name thereof.

mosquito
made by
God
con spirito,
buzzzinging
by my
ear
(while birds are singing),
God
made u
& i

As true as the Trinity
And Christ's divinity,
And as heavy as gravity,
My total depravity
Is undeniable.
But God created me justifiable,—
Me, who's more of a Don Knotts
Than an Isaac Watts.

Of all the moms that grace my life,
     Mom, you're the mom that's best of all.
I thank You, God, for my awesome mom,
     The bestest mom since mankind's fall.

The Holy Bible, th'historie of man,
     And God and man, and God as man on earth;
     The true account of how the world began;
The treasure mapp that leades to love and mirth;
The looking glasse wherein is seene the faire
     Image of God, and all mans ugly sinnes;
     The written word of God for ev'ry heir
Of saving grace who runnes the race and winnes;
The booke of lyfe writ in my Saviours bloud,
     Dictated by the Spirits whisper'd breath;
     The foil for ev'ry curse; the cure for death;
The greatest booke about the greatest good;
     The pasture for the sheepe; the sheepefold rod;
     Manna from heav'n; the ladder up to God.

Thanks be to God,
For every good and perfect gift
Comes down from the Father of lights
Who causes us in Christ
The world to overcome
And to joyfully sing.  

I am a man flawed,
A Christian the Devil will sift
For a season.  But the serpent bites
His own tongue, in time; and I, imparadised,
Will ask him when he's dumb,
Death, where is thy sting?

On him who isn't worthy
    To wash his master's feet,
To drink his savior's lifeblood,
    The bread of life to eat;

On him who is most wretched
    Of all who wretched be—
On the first and worst of sinners—
    Have mercy, Lord, on me.

I am a little worm
     Made cunningly,
A little squirming germ
     Made stunningly.

Yet He, the Lord God, He
     Who's all in all,
Listens to me—to me—
     The fall in all.

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.