Inspiration

2 Timothy 3:16  All scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness:  (17)  That the man of God may be perfect, throughly furnished unto all good works.

This is the third Monday of the year. I hope you are keeping up your Bible reading. Whether you are reading through the Bible in the whole year or not, I hope you are picking up God's Word every day and feeding your soul with the only book given by inspiration of God. No New York Times Bestseller comes by inspiration. No Facebook post, no blog article, no news story comes by inspiration of the Holy One. No other book will give you God's Word. No other book will you find God speaking to you.

And to close this article out, I'll repost something I wrote here a while back.

"The Holy Scriptures are our letter from home."  So wrote Augustine about the inspired Word of God. When I say inspired, I don't mean the writers of Scripture gazed upon a beautiful mountain one early spring morning and then were inspired to write. No, the Scriptures are God breathed. Men penned the Words God spoke as they were "moved" by the Holy Spirit (2 Peter 1:16-21). People, not just helped by the Spirit, or guided by the Spirit, but moved and carried along by the Spirit of God, so what they wrote was not theirs, but God's. 

The Bible was written over a 2,000 year period by 40 different people.  Kings and cupbearers, prophets and priests, fishermen and farmers, scholars and slaves all carried along by the Holy Spirit to write the very words of the Lord. They wrote different genres; history, letters, poetry, and prophesy. They wrote from different places under various circumstances; in times of prosperity, and dominance, times of bondage and suffering.  And through it all, the amazing thing is there isn't any disagreement in the message. From Moses to John, from Genesis to Revelation, there is no discrepancy in the message of the Bible. How is that possible, so many men from so many different walks of life? Because they are not the words of men, but the words of God Himself. You'll find no inconsistency in message because there is one author of the book -- God.
"All scripture is give by inspiration of God" and He didn't give the ideas and let the men fill in the blanks. God gave every word - every part of speech, in every chapter and verse, just the way he wanted it. Our creator revealed the truth about Him and about us. How can we know the mind of God, unless God tells us (1 Corinthians 2:10-13)? When you read your Bible, you are reading what the Holy Spirit is teaching you. "All scripture is give by inspiration of God" and not just the parts we like. The Old Testament is just as much God's Word as the New. The Words in red are not more God's Word than the black.  So many people want to hear from God. Today, we have more access to Bibles in the United States than any other people in history. Yet, week after week, people cry out for "a word from the Lord." You have a word from God, it is your Bible! Love this precious book. A living book that speaks to us. An active book that comforts us. A relevant book for guidance in your life. How fast we search all over creation to get wisdom, when we have God's Word. Don't leave it on the shelf, hide it in your heart. God spoke to us in His Word!

Hast thou no scar? by Amy Carmichael

Hast thou no scar?
No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand?
I hear thee sung as mighty in the land,
I hear them hail thy bright ascendant star,
Hast thou no scar?

Hast thou no wound?
Yet, I was wounded by the archers, spent.
Leaned me against the tree to die, and rent
By ravening beasts that compassed me, I swooned:
Hast thou no wound?

No wound? No scar?
Yet as the Master shall the servant be,
And pierced are the feet that follow Me;
But thine are whole. Can he have followed far
Who has no wound nor scar?

When God Wants to Drill a Man

It's been a while since we've had a Monday morning verse. I came across this poem in a Bible commentary, of all places.

When God wants to drill a man
And thrill a man
And skill a man
When God wants to mold a man
To play the noblest part

When He yearns with all His heart
To create so great and bold a man
That all the world shall be amazed,
Watch His methods, watch His ways!

How He ruthlessly perfects
Whom He royally elects!
How He hammers him and hurts him
And with mighty blows converts him
Into shapes and forms of clay
Which only God can understand

How He bends but never breaks
When his good He undertakes
How He uses whom He chooses
And with mighty power infuses him
With every act induces him
To try His splendor out—
God knows what he's about.

Author "Unknown". Sort of. 

To My Mother - by Wendell Berry

I was your rebellious son,
do you remember? Sometimes
I wonder if you do remember,
so complete has your forgiveness been.

So complete has your forgiveness been
I wonder sometimes if it did not
precede my wrong, and I erred,
safe found, within your love,

prepared ahead of me, the way home,
or my bed at night, so that almost
I should forgive you, who perhaps
foresaw the worst that I might do,

and forgave before I could act,
causing me to smile now, looking back,
to see how paltry was my worst,
compared to your forgiveness of it

already given. And this, then,
is the vision of that Heaven of which
we have heard, where those who love
each other have forgiven each other,

where, for that, the leaves are green,
the light a music in the air,
and all is unentangled,
and all is undismayed.

The Old Oaken Bucket

By: Samuel Woodworth

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,

When fond recollection presents them to view!

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,

And every loved spot which my infancy knew;

The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;

The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e’en the rude bucket which hung in the well —

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;

For often, at noon, when returned from the field,

I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.

How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing!

How quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;

Then soon, with the emblem of truth over-flowing,

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well —

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!

Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.

And now, far removed from the loved situation,

The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well —

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

My grandpa had a well in his garden and I can still taste that cool water from the bucket. One day working on the farm, I felt like I was dying of thirst. It had to have been over 100 degrees outside and I just wanted some water. We stopped the tractor at the well, dropped the bucket and I was refreshed by the cool crisp water. My Dad, looked down in the water and asked if I had already drunk it. Indeed I had, why? Because there is a dead rat floating in the top.

Ah, the good ole' days. If your thoughts reading this poem was "no wonder the life expectancy was so short, with all the disease and germs in the water", this poem HERE will be more your taste. 

Sovereign Ruler of the Skies

By John Ryland

Sovereign Ruler of the skies, 
ever gracious, ever wise, 
All my times are in Thy hand, 
all events at Thy command. 
He that formed me in the womb, 
He shall guide me to the tomb. 

All my times shall ever be 
ordered by his wise decree. 
Times of sickness, times of health; 
times of poverty and of wealth; 
Times of trial and times of grief; 
times of triumph and relief; 

Times the tempter’s power to prove; 
times to taste a Savior’s love. 
All must come, and last, and end, 
as shall please my heavenly Friend. 
Plagues and deaths around me fly; 
till he bids, I cannot die; 

Not a single dart can hit, 
till the God of love thinks fit. 
O Thou gracious, wise, and just, 
in Thy hands my life I trust; 
Thee at all times will I bless: 
having Thee I all possess. 

When Thou Passest Through the Waters

Is there any heart discouraged as it journeys on its way? 

Does there seem to be more darkness than there is of sunny day? 

Oh, it’s hard to learn the lesson, as we pass beneath the rod, 

That the sunshine and the shadow serve alike the will of God; 

But there comes a word of promise like the promise in the bow — 

That however deep the waters, they shall never overflow. 

When the flesh is worn and weary, and the spirit is depressed, 

And temptations sweep upon it, like a storm on ocean’s breast, 

There’s a haven ever open for the tempest-driven bird; 

There’s a shelter for the tempted in the promise of the Word; 

For the standard of the Spirit shall be raised against the foe, 

And however deep the waters, they shall never overflow. 

When a sorrow comes upon you that no other soul can share, 

And the burden seems too heavy for the human heart to bear, 

There is One whose grace can comfort if you’ll give Him an abode;

There’s a Burden-Bearer ready if you’ll trust Him with your load; 

For the precious promise reaches to the depth of human woe, 

That however deep the waters, they shall never overflow. 

When the sands of life are ebbing and I know that death is near; 

When I’m passing through the valley, and the way seems dark and drear; 

I will reach my hand to Jesus, in His bosom I shall hide, 

And ’twill only be a moment till I reach the other side; 

It is then the fullest meaning of the promise I shall know. 

“When thou passest through the waters, they shall never overflow.”

Author unknown. This is based on Isaiah 43:2. I found it in the book Comfort the Grieving, by Brian Tautges. The poem is also available in tract form HERE. 

Belisarius by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I am poor and old and blind;
The sun burns me, and the wind
    Blows through the city gate
And covers me with dust
From the wheels of the august
    Justinian the Great.

It was for him I chased
The Persians o'er wild and waste,
    As General of the East;
Night after night I lay
In their camps of yesterday;
    Their forage was my feast.

For him, with sails of red,
And torches at mast-head,
    Piloting the great fleet,
I swept the Afric coasts
And scattered the Vandal hosts,
    Like dust in a windy street.

For him I won again
The Ausonian realm and reign,
    Rome and Parthenope;
And all the land was mine
From the summits of Apennine
    To the shores of either sea.

For him, in my feeble age,
I dared the battle's rage,
    To save Byzantium's state,
When the tents of Zabergan,
Like snow-drifts overran
    The road to the Golden Gate.

And for this, for this, behold!
Infirm and blind and old,
    With gray, uncovered head,
Beneath the very arch
Of my triumphal march,
    I stand and beg my bread!

Methinks I still can hear,
Sounding distinct and near,
    The Vandal monarch's cry,
As, captive and disgraced,
With majestic step he paced,--
    "All, all is Vanity!"

Ah! vainest of all things
Is the gratitude of kings;
    The plaudits of the crowd
Are but the clatter of feet
At midnight in the street,
    Hollow and restless and loud.

But the bitterest disgrace
Is to see forever the face
    Of the Monk of Ephesus!
The unconquerable will
This, too, can bear;--I still
    Am Belisarius!

Thank God, There's Still a Vangaurd

By
H. E. G. Arey.

Thank God, there's still a vanguard
Fighting for the Right ;
Though the throng flock to rearward,
Lifting (ashen-white)
Flags of truce to Sin and Error,
Clasping hands mute with terror,
Thank God, there's still a vanguard
Fighting for the Right.

Through the wilderness advancing,
Hewers of the way ;
Forward far their spears are glancing,
Flashing back the day.
"Back!" the leaders cry who fear them;
"Back !" from all the army near them ;
They, their steady tramp advancing,
Cleave their certain way.

Slay them — from each drop that falleth
Springs a hero armed ;
Where the martyr's fire appalleth,
Lo ! they pass unharmed ;
Crushed beneath thy wheel, Oppression,
How their spirits hold possession —
How their dross-purged voice outcalleth,
By the death-throes warmed !

Thank God, there's still a vanguard
Fighting for the right ;
Error's legions know their standard
Floating in the light.
When the league of Sin rejoices,
Quick outring the rallying voices,
Thank God, there's still a vanguard
Fighting for the Right.

By Night when Others Soundly Slept

By Anne Bradstreet

By night when others soundly slept 
And hath at once both ease and Rest, 
My waking eyes were open kept 
And so to lie I found it best. 

I sought him whom my Soul did Love, 
With tears I sought him earnestly. 
He bow’d his ear down from Above. 
In vain I did not seek or cry. 

My hungry Soul he fill’d with Good; 
He in his Bottle put my tears, 
My smarting wounds washt in his blood, 
And banisht thence my Doubts and fears. 

What to my Saviour shall I give 
Who freely hath done this for me? 
I’ll serve him here whilst I shall live 
And Loue him to Eternity. 

The Solitary Reaper

By
William Wordsworth

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Bird Tragedy

By
Geerhardus Vos

Ye birds, no fence can bar you out,
Whether of steel or stone,
From any garden of delight
Ye choose to make your own.

Yours were the freedom of the fields,
Could ye beware the nets,
Which, to beguile your innocence,
The crafty fowler sets.

Yours is the sky up to the clouds;
But from huge birds of prey
Is no defence: they lurk and watch,
Swoop down and clutch and slay.

One moment, and a feathery ball
Floats fluttering on the air;
No one knows, did it reach the earth,
Or, if it did so, where.

Should by incalculable chance
It light upon the spot,
Where hung the sheltering mother-nest,
The place would know it not.

What a pathetic tragedy,
That such things should befall,
In ways so disproportionate,
The big upon the small!

Come, hear the Preacher of the Mount
His wonder-sermon preach:
“No sparrow falleth to the ground
Outside my Father’s reach.”

Ye more than sparrows through his grace,
All your anxiety,
Your heights and depths, your falls and flights
He has in memory.

All creatures are, with Him compared,
Mere nothings; none the less
He can reclaim a ravished bird
From next to nothingness.

The Arrow and the Song

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807—1882)

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

Full Fathom Five

By William Shakespeare

(from The Tempest)

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that does fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong,
Hark! Now I hear them -- Ding-dong, bell.

HT: Joffre the Giant

Barnacles - Monday Morning Verse

By
Sidney Lanier

                        I
My soul is sailing through the sea,
But the Past is heavy and hindereth me.
The Past hath crusted cumbrous shells
That hold the flesh of cold sea-mells
    About my soul.
The huge waves wash, the high waves roll,
Each barnacle clingeth and worketh dole
    And hindereth me from sailing!

                       II

Old Past let go, and drop i' the sea
Till fathomless waters cover thee !
 For I am living but thou art dead ;
Thou drawest back, I strive ahead
    The day to find.
Thy shells unbind! Night comes behind,
I needs must hurry with the wind
    And trim me best for sailing.

Barnacles are small little crustaceans, in the crab/shrimp family that will stick to pretty much anything they come in contact with. They commonly attach themselves to the undersides of sailing vessels. They produce a fast-curing cement and, according to the National Ocean Service, it is one of the most powerful natural glues – with a tensile strength of 5,000 pounds per square inch.

Ships are built to sail through the water and cut through the waves the least resistance. When barnacles attach to the bottom of the ship it creates drag and resistance. The U.S. Navy spends over "$50 million a year just in fuel costs due to drag. It’s estimated that a newly painted destroyer would lose 2 knots of speed every six months if not scraped and cleaned — and this doubles in tropical waters."

If fact, it is estimated that barnacles cost around $7.5 billion in additional fuel costs due to the added drag. It adds more weight, much more resistance, and it makes it harder and more costly for the captain to get to his final destination. The poem compares barnacles on a ship to memories of the past that can drag us down and keep us from moving on in our life. It reminded me of what Paul wrote to the church at Philippi.

Philippians 3:13-14  Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

Whether those things Paul thought about were good memories or bad doesn't really matter. You cannot change the past and you cannot live off the past. You cannot press forward if you are living in the world of yesterday. What we have before us as God's people, is greater than anything that could be behind us.

Are you crippled by the "barnacles" of shameful memories? Stuck in the past because of some sin or failure? Don't you understand that the blood of Christ cleanses us from all sins? You are clean and pure in Christ. While you won't escape all the consequences of sin in this life, you stand white as snow before God. You are hidden in Christ. Have faith in the saving blood of Jesus and press on. Paul was a hated man. He was hated by the Jews, hated by false teachers, hated by other churches, even hated by some of the churches he pastored. The memories of past hurt, past sins, past failures didn't cripple Paul in the service for the Lord today. The Lord's mercies are new every morning and in the light of God's love, God's sovereign plan, and God's providential care, Paul pressed on. If you have dealt with your sin - if you have come to Christ, confessing your sins and asking forgiveness and done what you can to make it right with others (if you sinned again others as well); know that you are forgiven and rest in the grace of Christ Jesus.

Are you slowed by the good memories of the past? You cannot live off the past and expect the past devotions and past service to bless your soul. You may not be able to do as much as you could, or your life may be drastically different than it was. Paul's counsel (from prison, no less) was to press on. Paul could have thought about the good ole' days when he was free to roam the roads, preaching the gospel as the Lord had led. 

No, Paul had to press on. He did what he was able to do, where God had placed him. There was no "going backwards" with Paul. If anyone could have lived off past service, it would have been Paul. But if nothing else, he would preach to the guards, write epistles, pray for saints. He pressed on. Maybe you cannot do what you used to do. In God's providence he has changed the scope of your life or time has just taken a toll. Do what you can do now, and press on at the pace you are able. Don't live in the past. Scrape the barnacles from the ship and sail on.

Old Past let go, and drop i' the sea
Till fathomless waters cover thee !
 For I am living but thou art dead ;
Thou drawest back, I strive ahead

Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishe

Thomas Gray

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173567

’Twas on a lofty vase’s side,

Where China’s gayest art had dyed

   The azure flowers that blow;

Demurest of the tabby kind,

The pensive Selima, reclined,

   Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared;

The fair round face, the snowy beard,

   The velvet of her paws,

Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,

Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,

   She saw; and purred applause.

Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide

Two angel forms were seen to glide,

   The genii of the stream;

Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue

Through richest purple to the view

   Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw;

A whisker first and then a claw,

   With many an ardent wish,

She stretched in vain to reach the prize.

What female heart can gold despise?

   What cat’s averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent

Again she stretch’d, again she bent,

   Nor knew the gulf between.

(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled)

The slippery verge her feet beguiled,

   She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood

She mewed to every watery god,

   Some speedy aid to send.

No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;

Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard;

   A Favourite has no friend!

From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,

Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,

   And be with caution bold.

Not all that tempts your wandering eyes

And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;

   Nor all that glisters, gold.

The Tournament

By Sidney Lanier

JOUST FIRST

 I

Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies,

And the knights still hurried amain,

To the tournament under the ladies' eyes,

Where the jousters were Heart and Brain.

II

Flourished the trumpets: entered Heart,

A youth in crimson and gold. Flourished again:

Brain stood apart,

Steel-armored, dark and cold.

Ill

Heart's palfrey caracoled gayly round,

Heart tra-li-ra'd merrily;

But Brain sat still, with never a sound,

So cynical-calm was he.

IV

Heart's helmet-crest bore favors three

From his lady's white hand caught;

While Brain wore a plumeless casque; not he,

Or favor gave or sought.

V

The herald blew; Heart shot a glance,

To find his lady's eye,

But Brain gazed straight ahead, his lance

To aim more faithfully.

VI

They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled,

Brain rose again, ungloved,

Heart, dying, smiled, and faintly said,

"My love to my beloved."

JOUST SECOND

I

A-MANY sweet eyes wept and wept,

A-many bosoms heaved again;

A-many dainty dead hopes slept

With yonder Heart-knight prone o' the plain.

II

 Yet stars will burn through any mists,

And the ladies' eyes, through rains of fate,

Still beamed upon the bloody lists,

And lit the joust of Love and Hate.

III

 O strange! or ere a trumpet blew,

Or ere a challenge-word was given,

A knight leapt down i' the lists; none knew

Whether he sprang from earth or heaven.

IV

His cheek was soft as a lily-bud,

His gray eyes calmed his youth's alarm;

Nor helm nor hauberk nor even a hood

Had he to shield his life from harm.

V

No falchion from his baldric swung,

He wore a white rose in its place.

No dagger at his girdle hung,

But only an olive-branch, for grace.

VI

And "Come, thou poor mistaken knight,"

Cried Love, unarmed, yet dauntless there,

"Come on, God pity thee ! — I fight

Sans sword, sans shield; yet, Hate, beware!"

VII

Spurred furious Hate ; he foamed at mouth,

His breath was hot upon the air,

His breath scorched souls, as a dry drought

Withers green trees and burns them bare.

VIII

Straight drives he at his enemy,

His hairy hands grip lance in rest,

His lance gleams full bitterly,

God! — gleams, true-point, on Love's bare breast!

IX

Love's gray eyes glow with a heaven-heat,

Love lifts his hand in a saintly prayer;

Look! Hate hath fallen at his feet!

Look! Hate hath vanished in the air!

X

Then all the throng looked kind on all;

Eyes yearned, lips kissed, dumb souls were freed;

Two magic maids' hands lifted a pall,

And the dead knight, Heart, sprang on his steed.

XI

Then Love cried, "Break me his lance each knight!

 Ye shall fight for blood-athirst Fame no more !"

And the knights all doffed their mailed might

And dealt out dole on dole to the poor.

 XII

Then dove-flights sanctified the plain,

And hawk and sparrow shared a nest.

And the great sea opened and swallowed Pain,

And out of this water-grave floated Rest!

On His Blindness

by John Milton

WHEN I consider how my light is spent
  E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
  And that one Talent which is death to hide,
  Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present        
  My true account, least he returning chide,
  Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
  I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
  Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
  Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
  And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
  They also serve who only stand and waite.

Monday Verse - The Dying Christian To His Soul

by Alexander Pope

Vital spark of heav’nly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flying,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav’n opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?

Monday Verse: The Happy Life of a Country Parson

by Alexander Pope

PARSON, these things in thy possessing
Are better than the bishop’s blessing:
A wife that makes conserves; a steed
That carries double when there ’s need;

October store, and best Virginia,        
Tythe pig, and mortuary guinea;
Gazettes sent gratis down and frank’d,
For which thy patron’s weekly thank’d;
A large Concordance, bound long since;

Sermons to Charles the First, when prince;        
A Chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in;
The Polyglott—three parts—my text,
Howbeit—likewise—now to my next;

Lo here the Septuagint—and Paul,        
To sum the whole—the close of all.
  He that has these may pass his life,
Drink with the ’Squire, and kiss his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill,

And fast on Fridays—if he will;        
Toast Church and Queen, explain the news,
Talk with Churchwardens about pews,
Pray heartily for some new gift,
And shake his head at Doctor Swift.