In Praise of Psalm 23

My own hymn of thanksgiving:

Whatever may come,
i shall remember,
eventually,
to be grateful.

The smell of new-mown grass,
Its blades crowned with
Diadem-universes,
Will gladden my heart.

(There may be no Shepherd
But we are surely sheep.)

Even in terror of my own death,
i see all encompassed before me

Through eyes that glimpse eternity,
Through hands that both restrain and revive.

And in this way am i nourished,
Despite all,
Resplendent,
Completed.

Awake.

--Mr. Gobley