Charles H. Spurgeon on Psalms 144:15

Thrice happy nations, where with look benign

Thine aspect bends; beneath thy smile divine

The fields are with increasing harvests crown'd,

The flocks grow fast, and plenty reigns around,

Nor sire, nor infant son, black death shall crave,

Till ripe with age they drop into the grave;

Nor fell suspicion, nor relentless care,

Nor peace destroying discord enter there,

But friends and brothers, wives and sisters, join

The feast in concord and in love divine. —Callimachus.