Hallelujah, Praise Jehovah!

by William J. Kirkpatrick

Hallelujah, praise Jehovah,
From the heavens praise His name;
Praise Jehovah in the highest,
All His angels praise proclaim.
All His hosts together praise Him,
Sun, and moon, and stars on high;
Praise Him, O ye heav’n of heavens,
And ye floods above the sky.

Let them praises give Jehovah,
For His name alone is high,
And His glory is exalted,
And His glory is exalted,
And His glory is exalted,
Far above the earth and sky.

Let them praises give Jehovah,
They were made at His command,
Them forever He established;
His decree shall ever stand.
From the earth, oh, praise Jehovah,
All ye floods, ye dragons all;
Fire, and hail, and snow, and vapors,
Stormy winds that hear His call.


All ye fruitful trees and cedars,
All ye hills and mountains high,
Creeping things, and beasts, and cattle,
Birds that in the heavens fly.
Kings of earth, and all ye people,
Princes great, earth’s judges all,
Praise His name, young men and maidens,
Aged men and children small.


Acapella version here – you’ll need to permit active X controls and click on the play button when it finishes loading.

Sheet Music and other information here.
Psalms 148

1 Praise ye the LORD. Praise ye the LORD from the heavens: praise him in the heights.
2 Praise ye him, all his angels: praise ye him, all his hosts.
3 Praise ye him, sun and moon: praise him, all ye stars of light.
4 Praise him, ye heavens of heavens, and ye waters that be above the heavens.
5 Let them praise the name of the LORD: for he commanded, and they were created.
6 He hath also stablished them for ever and ever: he hath made a decree which shall not pass.
7 Praise the LORD from the earth, ye dragons, and all deeps:
8 Fire, and hail; snow, and vapour; stormy wind fulfilling his word:
9 Mountains, and all hills; fruitful trees, and all cedars:
10 Beasts, and all cattle; creeping things, and flying fowl:
11 Kings of the earth, and all people; princes, and all judges of the earth:
12 Both young men, and maidens; old men, and children:
13 Let them praise the name of the LORD: for his name alone is excellent; his glory is above the earth and heaven.
14 He also exalteth the horn of his people, the praise of all his saints; even of the children of Israel, a people near unto him. Praise ye the LORD.

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Maybe the Equuschick will move to Australia.

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up —
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony — three parts thoroughbred at least —
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won’t say die —
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, `That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop — lad, you’d better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.’
So he waited sad and wistful — only Clancy stood his friend —
`I think we ought to let him come,’ he said;
`I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

`He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.’

So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —
They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, `Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’

So Clancy rode to wheel them — he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, `We may bid the mob good day,
NO man can hold them down the other side.’

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat —
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

(Oops- The Equuschick is still under the weather and she forgot to credit AB Paterson, the author of the poem “The Man From Snowy River.” She did not mean to imply the poem was her own work- DHM)

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My Clean Room

I cleaned my room today:)

My room is cleaned from top to floor,
from window, bed, and door.
It smells and feels so fresh and clean;
I feel like I’ve had caffeine!

I put some lilacs on top of the table,
(My room is no longer a stable)
My bookshelves are all dusted,
And my bed is re-adjusted

The end of my poem is nigh,
so now I bid you good bye.


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How to ensure you have a Non-Picky Eater

1) Make the child actually eat.

2) Let the child help prepare the dinner. It doesn’t matter how many odd ingredients are thrown in (tonight’s fare? a soup with both paprika and spearmint flavorings). Because children have such an unconscious ego, they set out with the assumption that anything they have a hand in is sure to be a winner. In the case of culinary arts, it’s good to encourage this attitude.

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The Story Cloths of Viet Nam

Today is the 30th Anniversary of the Fall of Saigon.

CanadaFreePress explains a few things everybody thought they knew about.

Bob Parsons was in Viet Nam, and he tells us that it gave him a taste of what hell might be like.

Carl Bildt of Sweden analyzes the past and says the U.S. was mistaken to fight in Viet Nam, but that Communism hasn’t been very healthy for the people there, either.

Powerline remembers the fall of Saigon

One of the DHM’s classmates in school after the fall of Saigon was a young Viet Namese refugee. I’ve always wondered what happened to her and her family later.

Another group of people affected by the collapse of democracy in that part of Asia are the Hmong. Many of the Hmong have made some beautiful story quilts illustrating their hsitory, their way of life, and their folk tales.

One of my relatives has a lovely example showing the Hmong people peacefully farming and going about their daily tasks, the communists invading, the Americans helping as the Hmong fight back, and then the torching of their villages as the Americans pull out, leaving them at the mercy of the communists- who had no mercy.

The final pictures on the quilt show the Hmong people escaping over a river, in small boats, floating on logs, in inner tubes from tires. Then they arrive in the United States to build a new life. The final picture always catches me at the throat- a Hmong refugee is sitting beneath a tree, and a thought bubble over his head says, “Thoughts of home.”

These are beautiful works of art, and if you haven’t seen them before, you can click on these links to have a look. I’m including the Amazon link because it allows you to look inside the book and zoom in on the page, giving the best image of the quilts I could find. I don’t own this book, but I will be putting it on hold at our library.

Just look at these images (Update: The images I’m swooning over are not the ones here on the blog- but if you click on the link below, and then choose to see inside the book- then you will be able to see some really good resolution of these lovely quilts):

Hmong Story Cloths– this one has some information about the images on the cloths- which include airplanes bombing a village and the escape across a river.

Using Textiles to Tell a Cultural Tale– wonderfully informative article on the Hmong people, their history, and their craft.

This link has a beautifully clear picture of one of the story cloths telling about the Hmong people during and after the way. Because this one is less cluttered than some others, it’s a little easier to follow the story. This page also has quite a bit of information about the Hmong people. I didn’t have time to read it all.

You can another glimpse of a beautiful story cloth here, along with some easy lesson plans.

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