The Lord, the Lord my shepheard is,
And so can never I
Tast missery.
He rests me in greene pasture his:
By waters still, and sweete
Hee guides my feete.
Hee me revives: leades me the way,
Which righteousnesse doth take,
For his names sake.
Yea though I should through valleys stray,
Of deathes dark shade, I will
Noe whitt feare ill.
For thou deere Lord, thou me besett’st:
Thy rodd, and thy staff be
To comfort me
Before me thou a table sett’st,
Even when foes envious ey
Doth it espy.
Thou oil’st my head thou fill’st my cupp:
Nay more thou endlesse good,
Shalt give me food.
To thee, I say, ascended up,
Where thou, the Lord of all,
Dost hold thy hall.