Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PSALM 23, by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PSALM 23, by                    
First Line: Happy me! O happy sheep
Last Line: Warme into the armes of death.


Happy me! o happy sheepe!
Whom my God vouchsafes to keepe;
Even my God, Even he it is,
That points me to these wayes of blisse;
On whose pastures cheereful spring,
All the yeare doth sit and sing,
And rejoycing smiles to see
Their greene backs were his liverie:
Pleasure sings my soule to rest,
Plenty weares me at her brest,
Whose sweet temper teaches me
Nor wanton, nor in want to be.
At my feet the blubb'ring Mountaine
Weeping, melts into a Fountaine,
Whose soft silver-sweating streames
Make high Noone forget his beames:
When my waiward breath is flying,
Hee calls home my soule from dying,
Strokes and tames my rabid Griefe,
And does wooe me into life:
When my simple weaknesse strayes,
(Tangled in forbidden wayes)
Hee (my Shepheard) is my Guide,
Hee's before me, on my side,
And behind me, he beguiles
Craft in all her knotty wiles;
Hee expounds the giddy wonder
Of my weary steps, and under
Spreads a Path cleare as the Day,
Where no churlish rub saies nay
To my joy-conducted Feet,
Whil'st they Gladly goe to meet
Grace and peace, to meet new laies
Tun'd to my great Shepheards praise.
Come now all yee terrors, sally
Muster forth into the valley,
Where triumphant darknesse hovers
With a sable wing, that covers
Brooding Horror. Come thou Death,
Let the damps of thy dull Breath
Overshadow even the shade,
And make darknesse selfe afraid;
There my feet, even there shall find
Way for a resolved mind.
Still my Shepheard, still my God
Thou art with me, Still thy rod,
And thy staffe, whose influence
Gives direction, gives defence.
At the whisper of thy Word
Crown'd abundance spreads my Bord:
While I feast, my foes doe feed
Their rank malice not their need,
So that with the self-same bread
They are starv'd, and I am fed.
How my head in ointment swims!
How my cup orelooks her Brims!
So, even so still may I move
By the Line of thy deare Love;
Still may thy sweet mercy spread
A shady Arme above my head,
About my Paths, so shall I find
The faire Center of my mind
Thy Temple, and those lovely walls
Bright ever with a beame that falls
Fresh from the pure glance of thine eye,
Lighting to Eternity.
There I'le dwell for ever, there
Will I find a purer aire
To feed my Life with, there I'le sup
Balme and Nectar in my Cup,
And thence my ripe soule will I breath
Warme into the Armes of Death.





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