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Poem

For the gift of verse, thank you Lord,
I'm grateful too for the endowments of rhyme;
These are apparatus of treasured worth
Given to a juvenile youth at so early a time,
Of a tender age of score and three
And as green as the leaves of a virgin tree.

Now, thank you Father for the blessing of greatness
And praise to you for the trappings of fame;
Glory to your omnipotence for the joys of name,
Hallowed be your name for the riddance of pettiness
And honour to you for benediction of sense;
All these I'll use for your laudation hence.

Many have tried these assets to nurture
And saints for them did pray,
But acquired not these invaluable tools;
I'm a sinner and I often forget to repent every day,
Yet  these vitals have given me.

Let pride and conceit overtake me not
And let me thrush the iron while its hot;
Let me bake the dough of rhyme while its lithe
And to the Muses of renown pay my tithe.

Let me not compare my lines with anyone else's
But through practise better my art ;
Let me not commit the despicable offenses
Of praising my outstanding craft.

Whatever the words use I feel like I'm saying less;
Again, thank you for the effortless finesse
That you've freely given to one humble out of choice,
Or perhaps his pious parents long ago raised their voice
That upon their son you place this treasure;
And thus their prayers you've answered to the measure.

And when it envelopes the bliss of death,
When the blanket of cold shall suffocate my breath,
Remember my toils of verse and virtue,
And let in my soul be done a searching by you;
That I may qualify for life everlasting,
And among the angels I shall eternally sing.

And herebelow let not my poetry rot
When I join your seraphic lot;
Let generations upon generations to the end
Sing my verse till He come's that sinner's friend.

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