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.

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.