Psalm 37

From those who make their arm their god,

Turn from the kindling of their flame,

From mammon struck from Caesar's gold,

A breathless wind, without a name.

The weavings of a weary mind,

Hour upon hour of endless thought,

Are torn now in my folded hands,

In stillness, all my battles fought.

No more to worship at my will,

I cast upon my God my care,

God my delight alone, the seal-stone rolled away,

An angel seated there.