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Sit down at my right hand,
Make your foes a footstool;
For I know the demand,
That has made you a fool.
The Lord sends from Zion,
Of your mighty scepter;
Like a roaring lion,
To strike the deceiver.
Rule in the midst of foes,
As they will give freely;
For they know what one owes,
In all that is really.
For power on that day,
Being clothed from the womb;
The morning dew will pray,
You rested in the tomb.
Because the Lord has sworn,
And will not change His mind;
No longer will you mourn,
Comfort in joy, you find.
Christ is priest forever,
Over Melchizedek;
A King not to sever,
And be given respect.
The Lord is at your right,
He will shatter His wrath;
On kings with His pure light,
For obstructing their path.
He shall judge the pagan,
Judgment to the nation;
With their heart so harden,
Having no salvation.
Mass graves dug for their dead,
As corpses of heathen;
Will never see instead,
The beauty of Heaven.
He will shatter the chief,
Over vastness of earth;
Having sorrow and grief,
For seeing their true worth.
He will drink from the brook,
The streaming goes by way;
Thinks about those who forsook,
Never returned who stray.
Copyright © 2019 Richard Newton Sherrer
The Priestly King
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