The flight to quiet hills,
A haste that is no haste,
The place that ever fills,
The heart with sweeter taste,
When adventure's call is small,
When weary ears subordinated,
Must recoup and so recall
the shire.

Noodle soup but not the usual kind,
Instead a flowing melody I find,
In it a beauty and complexity,
A challenge and conformity,
An exploration of the frets,
A remark of phrases and their sets,
A little herbs as chords freshly picked,
A little pepper as runs I deftly flicked,
Into the noodle soup but not the usual kind,
Instead I find a flowing melody.

Holy anointed one,
Be seated in your right place,
Below my collar,
Beneath my ribs and nestled in my innermost being,
Deep above all in my heart,

You are worthy,
For you did not despise death,
But bore the serpent's fangs as you crushed it once and for all,
You alone can lay down Your life and pick it up again,
So you are worthy, Son of David.