Oh, reading the various crimes
Committed against my brethren
The thing that scares me most
Is not the tortures, but the
One or two I've read who waivered.

She sits and reads and thinks,
"Yes, I like Mildred, she is right.
"I do not like being offended by books.
"I like being distracted by the airpods.
"I like watching my TV and doing my breakdown
"Of the book on the internet.
"The book is too boring.
"I want to have fun."

I am mocked, scorned and hated
By all men, called "Wicked and Lazy".
I make works that should be praised
For Millennia, but am hated and called proud.
As Paul says, "As unknown, and yet well known; 
"As dying, and, behold, we live; 
"As chastened, and not killed;""
I live lonely... and Pharaoh Sin
Rules the world, saying, "I have made the river."
When his arm is broken, and he is
Taken to the grave, the stars shall dim
And the Sun shall dim, and the moon also.
And there, shall the LORD cause my enemies
To see I have obtained mercy, and truth, and peace, and righteousness.

Mercy, Mercy, come to me
Though I fail a thousand times.
I am Truth... no man intercedes
For me, no man pleads my cause
And I have no justice.
They say, "He has an easy life
"And is idle and fat and lazy."
Who, then, shall find the mysteries of God?
If not I, with my constant work?
Was not Mary at the LORD's feet?
Did she not take the better place
Than even Martha, busily doing her business?
Christ said, "I have accepted your sacrifice",
And His arm shall bring salvation to me.

I shall honor you with a poem,
Mighty scholar, deep in breadth.
The great depth you wrought
With a diction of excellence,
And everything so meticulous.
There are few names as impressive
For their mighty work of scholarship.
Of which, you are like the good doctor
Luke, in your authority and meticulous
Poring over everything to create your opus.
I am a light and treacherous poet
Passing the idylls away, so the mind can pleasantly
Muse upon our Savior... and know.
You are a serious minded scholar.
No, the breadth and depth and scope of my learning---
If ever there should be such a boast from me---
You surpass me. I know you by your authority
And know the reputation you have
By simply seeing the feat and achievement 
You have wrought in simplicity.
May I be as diligent in preserving truth
My brother in Christ...

When you fall you shall arise
When about to die, you shall
Be preserved. The Angels shall 
Bear you up, until your time.
For they shall beat your enemies
Into dust---but do not speak to them.
They speak like a conscience into you
And all tell you the way---
Do not talk to them, do not worship them
Simply let them go do their work
For they cannot die, but rather
Are the stewards of your soul.
Do not worship the angelic host
But know they were just like you
At a time, upon this Earth and have
Come back to store up their treasures, too.
Which is you, who they loved
Though they don't know anymore who they were
Or who you were, only that they love you always.

Till the soil, break the clods,
Plough the fallow ground.
Whatever you do in life
Do so---However, Satan
Hinders the righteous.

One can be a Clydesdale
And be confined to a stall;
Powerful enough to pull
Two tons, but weak
And starved of affection.
That is the Meek one
Who shall inherit the earth.
And if the horse in the stall
Nibbles upon the passeryonder's apples
And does not bob its head or pin its ears
But rather is thrilled for a little bit of kindness
It is meek and mild, and one day
The Master shall come, and take
Him out of the abusive home
Purchase him from his cruel owner,
And train him to till the field
And make him strong.
For that is a true horse's desire
Is to run fast, to pull the sled
And to till the acreage. 

What is ours, for us,
Our effective purpose, but
To live right, though we
Might suffer for it, and lose 
All? Do not teach the world.

For if we live like it we shall not make
It suffer less, but suffer more, and though
We be happy, the entirety of 
The righteous mourn. Blessed are those who mourn. And
Blessed are the meek. Not blessed are the strong. Our
Purpose is to retain our good, through Christ.

The Yarrow grows in the garden;
The unwise farmers throw it out.
Rather, let it grow, and make some
Potpourri, for it smells like Sage.
A sweet smell, like some sage and pine;
Its leaves are little ferns, not like
Wormwood's or Tansy's wicked leaves
Which connect themselves together.