Along the way through thickets of thorns

A place was found for rest.

Mid bugs and leaves I made my bed

Though not mansion, was considered best.

They who hate what’s good had jabbed at me

While thorns had torn my clothes.

But in this place removed from sight

His peace was left alone.

All praise to Him who made the leaves

Provided bugs for blessed words bade.

Tis better far to converse with those

Who envy my fleshly grave.