’Tis not the strength we have to believe,
All the tales that from others we receive;
Nor the ugly faces we make when we grieve;
Nor those long drawn out sighs we heave;
Nor even the sorrow we feel for crimes,
Committed away back in ancient times,
By Adam and Eve among their vines
Of the lovely Garden of Eden
Where before there was not a weed in.
Go to church if you please, don your bonnet and hike,