I Love Hanging And Drawing And Quartering

Then Cherish Pity, Lest You Drive An Angel From Your Door.

He Who Shall Hurt The Little Wren Shall Never Be Beloved By Men.

Come O'er The Eastern Hills, And Let Our Winds Kiss Thy Perfumed Garments; Let Us Taste Thy Morn And Evening Breath; Scatter Thy Pearls Upon Our Love-sick Land That Mourns For Thee.

If You Trap The Moment Before It's Ripe, The Tears Of Repentence You'll Certainly Wipe; But If Once You Let The Ripe Moment Go You Can Never Wipe Off The Tears Of Woe.

Where Others See But The Dawn Coming Over The Hill, I See The Soul Of God Shouting For Joy.