Nun freut euch

by Martin Luther

Nun freut euch, lieben Christen g'mein,
Und lasst uns fröhlich springen,
Dass wir getrost und all in ein
Mit Lust und Liebe singen:
Was Gott an uns gewendet hat,
Und seine süsse Wunderthat,
Gar theur hat er's erworben.

Dem Teufel ich gefangen lag,
Im Tod war ich verloren,
Mein' Sünd' mich quälet Nacht und Tag,
Darin war ich geboren,
Ich fiel auch immer tiefer d'rein,
Es war kein gut's am Leben mein,
Die Sünd' hat mich besessen.

Mein' gute Wert' die galten nicht,
Es war mit ihm verdorben;
Der frei Will' hasset Gottes G'richt,
Er war zum Gut'n erstorben;
Die Angst mich zu verzweifeln trieb,
Dass nichts denn Sterben bei mir blieb,
Zur Hölle musst ich sinken.

Da jammert's Gott in Ewigkeit
Mein Elend über Massen,
Er dacht' an sein' Barmherzigkeit,
Er wollt' mir helfen lassen;
Er wandt' zu mir das Vaterherz,
Es war bei ihm fürwahr kein Scherz,
Er liess sein Bestes kosten.

Er sprach zu seinem lieben Sohn:
Die Zeit ist hier zu 'rbarmen,
Fahr' hin mein's Herzens werthe Kron'
Und sei das Heil dem Armen,
Und hilf ihm aus der Sünden Noth,
Erwürg' für ihn den bittern Tod
Und lass' ihn mit dir leben.

Der Sohn dem Vater g'horsam ward,
Er kam zu mir auf Erden,
Von einer Jungfrau rein und zart,
Er sollt' mein Bruder werden.
Gar heimlich führt er sein' Gewalt,
Er ging in meiner armen G'stalt,
Den Teufel wollt' er fangen.

Er sprach zu mir: halt' dich an mich,
Es soll dir jetzt gelingen,
Ich geb' mich selber ganz für dich,
Da will ich für dich ringen;
Denn ich bin dein und du bist mein,
Und wo ich bleib', da sollst du sein,
Uns soll der Feind nicht scheiden.

Vergiessen wird er mir mein Blut,
Dazu mein Leben rauben,
Das leid' ich alles dir zu gut,
Das halt' mit festem Glauben.
Den Tod vorschlingt das Leben mein,
Mein' Unschuld trägt die Sünde dein,
Da bist du selig worden.

Gen Himmel zu dem Vater mein
Jahr' ich von diesem Leben,
Da will ich sein der Meister dein,
Den Geist will ich dir geben,
Der dich in Trübniss trösten soll
Und lehren mich erkennen wohl,
Und in der Wahrheit leiten.

Was ich gethan hab' und gelehrt,
Das sollst du thun und lehren,
Damit das Reich Gott's werd' gemehrt
Zu Lob' und seinen Ehren;
Und hüt' dich vor der Menschen G'satz,
Davon verdirbt der edle Schatz,
Das lass' ich dir zur Letze.

Debaser

by Black Francis

Got me a movie
I want you to know
Slicing up eyeballs
I want you to know
Girlie so groovy
I want you to know
Don't know about you
But I am un chien andalusia

Want to grow up to be
Be a debaser

The Death of Autumn

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,
And will be born again,—but ah, to see
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?

East Coker (Pt. V)

[Pt. IV here]
by T.S. Eliot

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

[The Dry Salvages]

Hey Hey

by Ken Block

Save yourself
Save your breath
Save a little hope for me

Take a rest
Take your time
Take the whole bottle of wine

Lay your head
Lay it down
Lay yourself down on the ground

Stop me if I'm embarrassing myself
But I can let this slip away

Hey hey, what do you think about
Maybe staying around because
Lately all I can think about's you

And you think, could I be good for you?
I think, 'What am I gonna do?'
All I know is I love being with you

Write the books
Right the wrongs
Write the little radio songs

See the light
See the signs
See in between the crooked lines

Help me if I'm embarrassing myself
I can't let this slip away

Were Thine That Special Face

by Cole Porter

Were thine that special face
The face that fills my dreaming
Were thine the rhythmed grace
Were thine the form so lithe and slender
Were thine the arms so warm, so tender
Were thine the kiss divine

Were thine the love for me
The love that fills my dreaming
When all these charms are thine
Then you'll be mine, all mine

I wrote a poem
In classic style
I wrote it with my tongue in my cheek
And my lips in a smile
But of late my poem
Has a meaning so new
For to my surprise
It suddenly applies
To my darling, to you

The Home Front

by Patterson Hood

The hours creep across the face
As she paces across the floor
She can't even get to sleep
Since Tony went to war
She feels bitchslapped and abandoned
By a world she thought she knew
Cold beyond comprehension
As their little girl turns two

Now they're saying on the flatscreen
They ain't found a reason yet
We're all bogged down in a quagmire
And there ain't no end to it
No 9/11 or uranium
To pin the bullshit on
She's left standing on the home front
The two of them alone

The Hippopotamus

by T.S. Eliot

Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.

S. Ignatii Ad Trallianos.

And when this epistle is read among you, cause that it be read also in the church of the Laodiceans.

The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh and blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo's feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.

The 'potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo's voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus's day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way—
The Church can sleep and feed at once.

I saw the 'potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr'd virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.