Protect me, Lord my God,
For refuge I proceed,
“You are my Master,” says my soul,
Your goodness none exceeds.
Concerning, then, your saints,
The holy-ones of earth,
They are magnificent and pure,
For them, delight is birthed.
Those who chased after Baal,
Their sorrows will be great.
Never will I pour out blood,
Their very names I hate.
I will inherit You,
And You maintain my land,
The lines have fallen pleasantly,
An heir with good at hand.
Sermon Poems 