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116
Part of the 143. Psalm paraphras'd, concerning true Beatitude.
O rescue me out of the handOf such as thy behests withstand,
Degenerate Children, they, wholly,
And utter naught but vanity.
Whose powerful Arms in my distress,
Were Arms stretch'd forth to wickedness:
Whose Youthfull Sonns, like to a Spring,
Of vigorous shoots, are flourishing;
Whose Daughters, dress'd, their Pride display,
Deckt (Temple-like) in rich array;
Whose store of Corn abundant lies,
Heapt up in their rich Granaries.
Whose Ewes are fruitful, flocks, that go
Mantling the Earth like drifts of snow.
117
And in whose Walls no ruins are:
Nor noyse of Thieves, or Rogues, that meet,
Or hideous out-cries in the Street.
Such some admire, and Happy call,
Cause they have blessings temporal;
But I him Blest have understood,
Whose Lord to him is God, all good.
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