So On This Windy Sea Of Land,

And Storied Windows Richly Dight, Casting A Dim Religious Light. There Let The Pealing Organ Blow, To The Full-voiced Choir Below, In Service High, And Anthems Clear As May, With Sweetness, Through Mine Ear Dissolve Me Into Ecstasies, And Bring All Heaven Before Mine Eyes.

Now The Bright Morning-star, Day's Harbinger, Comes Dancing From The East.

There Is No Truth Sure Enough To Justify Persecution.

Which Way I Fly Is Hell; Myself Am Hell.

Chaos Umpire Sits And By Decision More Embroils The Fray By Which He Reigns: Next Him High Arbiter Chance Governs All.