CXLVI.
1
Praise yea the Lord. Prayse God, my soule.
I'll prayse him qll I live.
2
Prayse to my God I'le sing, to me
Whill being Hee doth give.
3
Trust not in princes, in the sone
Of man who can not save.
4
His breath goes out, and back to earth
He getts, to gett a grave.
With him his thoghts (his draughts most deep)
Do perisch in yt day.
5
O, blest is hee, who for his help
Hath Jacob's God allway;
Whose hope is in the Lord his God,
6
The heavin, the earth, the deeps,
And all theirin conteined who maid,
[And] treuth for euer keeps.
7
For all benaith oppressione's load
Who groan, he judgment gives,
And (bountifull) with fitting foode
The hungry hart releevs.
8
The prissouner the Lord doth louse;
The Lord the blind maks sie;
The bow'd the Lord doth rayse; the Lord
All loves that vpright bee.
9
The Lord the stranger doth preserve,
The orphane oft made prey;
The widow he releives, bot quyt
O'rturnes the wicked's way.
10
The Lord, O Sion, even thy God
Shall soveraine sitt for ay,
And raigne to generatiounes all.
His prayse let all display.