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By James Vasquez
A Shepherd do I own, 'tis he,
Who stands with rod and staff,
And ever guides my wandering feet,
On his most just behalf,
In truth, my Shepherd has owned me,
And thus no want I know,
In pastures verdant, by yon hills,
Or where still waters flow.
The Lord my Shepherd is who shall,
My wavering soul restore,
When from the valley, dark with death,
His presence I implore,
And nothing shall I fear just then,
Though darkness all around,
Encloses me, forbidding light,
With naught but shadows found.
A table overflowing with,
Rich victuals prepared,
He spreads before me while my foes,
Look on, their hunger bared.
My head with oil anointed well,
Reflects the sun's bright ray,
My laden cup he furnishes,
On this and every day.
And shall not goodness and his love,
Pursue me all my days,
Assuring that my soul, unmoved,
Rejoices in his ways?
While I, no other dwelling place,
Shall seek or yet desire,
But in his house abide for e'er,
When all my years expire.