A translation of the psalms of David :: :: University of Virginia Library

O Lord, my soul thy spirit tries,
Thou know'st me when I close mine eyes,
And when my rest I leave;
My thoughts, from all deception free,
Unveil their purposes to thee
Ere I myself conceive.

Thou art about my daily tour,
And when my respite I procure
Thou art about my bed;
And all the complicated maze
Of truth and error in my ways
By thee are seen and read.

For lo! there's not a word or name,
These organs of my voice can frame,
But thou, O Lord, canst tell;
Ere yet my tongue itself prepare,
To give the measur'd accents air,
Thou understandest well.

Thou hast adorn'd with manly grace
The features of my ruddy face
In seemly sort agreed,
And laidst thy hand upon my loins,
Where strength with symmetry conjoins
To bless myself and seed.

Beyond my reach such wonders tow'r,
Too excellent thy art and pow'r
Above all height sublime;
My thoughts exalt themselves and grow,
Thy works stupendous leave them low
How far soe'er they climb.

Where shall I then thy spirit shun,
To what extremes of distance run
Its motions to escape;
And by what mystery or might
Shall I the bearings of my flight
From omnipresence shape?

Should I to highest heav'n ascend,
And with superior beings blend,
There art thou in thy reign;
Or should I in the depths immerge
Of death and hell's contiguous verge,
And thou art there again.

If with the morning's rosy wings
Quick from her perch my spirit springs,
And o'er the rolling tide
Her climate and her haunts she change,
And from thy house herself estrange,
And far from home abide,

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There also nothing shall obstruct
Thy careful eye, thou shalt conduct
My wand'rings with thy hand;
And there thy right hand shall support,
And my good guard against the sport
Of chance and malice stand.

If to the darkness I appeal,
The darkness shall at least conceal
And quench thy piercing ray;
The thought convincing conscience checks,
And thine internal truth detects,
And turns my night to day.

To thee the darkness is no gloom,
Alike to thee the morning's womb,
And evening's barren shade;
Thee all created objects strike,
The dawn and the still dusk alike,
Which their relations made.

For modell'd by thy skill divine,
The texture of my reins is thine,
And in the female mould
When the weak embryo was inclos'd,
The forming parts thou then dispos'd,
And didst with care infold.

To what a rapture hast thou warm'd
These limbs, for fear and trembling form'd,
And in such wonder skill'd;
My conscious soul adores thine art,
And from the workings of my heart
My gratitude I build.

The substance of each nerve and bone
To thee are intimately known,
And at my hour of birth
Thou didst thy quick'ning spirit breathe,
Though I be taken from beneath,
And but refin'd from earth.

Thine eyes review'd th'imperfect sketch
Ere yet my limbs began to stretch
And were for action ripe;
Before my members were of age,
For birth, thou wrote them in thy page,
And with the fairest type.

Which day by day assay'd to live,
And as thou didst conception give,
Were warm'd with gradual heat;
When flesh and vital moisture both
Slept in the burial of their growth,
And none were yet compleat.

O God, to what a pitch are wrought
The councils of omniscient thought,
How dear unto my soul,
To what an infinite of sums
Their meanest estimation comes,
What worlds on worlds the whole!

If I should set about to count
Their number, they by far surmount
The sand upon the shore—
When in the morning first I wake,
By pray'r towards their source I make,
And on my face adore.

O Lord, shall not the foes to good
By thy protection be withstood,
The reprobates repress;
Depart ye men that are the first
To violate my laws, and thirst
For slaughter in excess?

Against thy providence they scheme,
And to thy name, which they blaspheme,
Unrighteous things impute;
And all thine enemies avow'd
Are open, insolent and loud
In their absurd dispute.

Are not the traitor and ingrate,
O Lord, the monsters of my hate,
And do I not disgust
The rebels of thy holy cause,
That arm against thy church and laws,
The fiends of wrath and lust?

Yea, from my soul I disapprove
All those dire engines that they move,
And friends which they suborn;
And I detest them more by far
Than when my private peace they mar
With all their rage and scorn.

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Try me, O God, and seek the ground
Of this my heart, if it be sound,
And worthy of a man;
Do thou unravel all the clue
Of all and every thing I do,
And purposes I plan.

Peruse me well, if spite or guile
My breast with inward taint defile,
And with my nature mix;
Reform what there thou find'st amiss,
And in the way of endless bliss
For Christ his merit fix.