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. 

Whether Waldenses or Catholics,
Anglican or Early Church,
I am a friend to those who hold our faith
In pure conscience. 
Waldenses and Albigensians were not Cathars
But held to the True Godhead and Trinity.
Sir Thomas Moore and Joan of Arc
Are martyrs as much as the many Myriads
Of Germans put to death for Apostasy, too.
For the true faith stands against Sin---
That is the mark of true salvation
And also the deep desire for a life of holiness and purity.
And the true faith offers up a willing sacrifice of body
Rather than bloodshed and tyranny.

The travelling peasant upon her course
Walks through the misty trees...
Never, never, never, has she seen
The walls of Rome tower mighty high;
Fifty Cubits in the sky.
Upon the city, she enters clean
A world of revelry, science and glee.
The houses air conditioned with ice
The ice cream, the berries, the flavor, the fights
Of men in gladiatorial glee,
Two men in mortal combat, one falls, the crowds pleased
At the blood shed upon the Earth.
She falls into ancient revelry and their mirth.
Where the gods demand their virtues--
Sex with children, murder, rape
Theft and adultery are their rites;
Buy a prostitute, young or old
And watch the theatre where slaves are sold
Their performances, and do their uncensored sex.
Revelry, revelry, be Roman Guest.
This quiet peasant sees the towering walls
The orgies in the bath houses, in their steamy pools
 But saw this would cause that Rome to fall.
Christ, a God of a conquered peoples
Shall come upon the bands of Peace
And by Constantine shall He marry State and Truth
And cause all the revelry to for a time to rue.
At the last, the Romans shall call to offense
"It is this Christian God who caused us to lose our defense."
Yet, Augustine shall say in his city of God
"Your gods are hypocrites, scoundrel's and liars
"Just like you all. They could not protect you
"And like it or not, we have a Living God."

Oh, King, Dragon, thou wicked counselor
You imagine mischief against the LORD.
You are afflicted by Him, but He will
Unyoke you, and unbind you, and you shall
Die... His discipline shall stop the curse soon.
Your name shall stop being sown, vile man.

Oh False Prophet, drunkard, fool, you're never
Satisfied. You spoil, and steal from me.
You drink many flagons of wine, carouse
And are never at home. Never at home.
Uncircumcized of heart, covetous for 
Your house, your mind has changed, always it's changed.

Oh Beast, settled on your lees, you say, "I AM
"And there is not another beside me."
Your house and possessions shall be spoiled.
You rejected God's law utterly. You
Wear strange apparel. The LORD said, "Thou shalt
"Fear me." You utterly rejected Him.