What honor hath a dog like me?

What good canst thou see in me?

E'en when Thy grace bestowed

I still a creature low

Your love is true indeed

You fail not my soul to feed

Yet I in shameful face

Do despise your grace

A fool, and great I am

I should die forever damned

Yet, LOVE, thou hast for me

I suppose I will not see

Lest with thy gentle hand

Thou takest my feet from the sand

And there upon the stone

Thou makest me a home
 

- Robert Hunt

Shepherd's Scrip

vol.5/num.1 Jan. 1998