I am hawk to my
Lord the fowler.
He unsheaths my eyes.
He maketh me to soar in His skies.
My talons are His to command.
He bids them be His answer.
I scream down like my brother the eagle.
I strike the whining weak my Lord dispises.
I feed while He takes His leasure.
I rest on is forearm.
He knows my measure.
My joy is to glide on the winds of His pleasure.

Surely He watches over me,
as I, his deadly kite,
stalk His flock in the bright beams of
His deadly light.