The Psalmes of David, from the New Translation of the Bible Turned into Meter ::

A thousand yeares in thy account
But to a day with us amount:
Nor are extended in thy sight,
Beyond the watch of one short night:
Our time runs on like rapid streams;
We vanish as forgotten dreams:
Like grasse, or morning flowres, we spring;
Then wither in the evening.

When Thou displeased art, we wast,
And unto nothing come at last.
Thou mark'st our deeds; our sins of night
Are alwayes open to thy sight;
Making the breach of thy pure Lawes,
Our death, and swift destructions cause.
From whence we suddenly waxe old,
Expiring like a tale that's told.

The common Age of mortall men
Exceeds not Threescore yeares and ten.
And if to Fourscore they attaine,
Their life is but a length'ned paine.
Incessant sorrowes, and disease,
Their faculties, and vigour seize.

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For soon cut off our dayes decay,
And suddenly we flie away.

But who regards Thy heauy wrath,
Or of Thy feare true feeling hath?
Neither Thy judgements, nor Thy love,
Can us unto repentance move.
Lord! so our dayes to number teach,
We may the end of wisedome reach:
And learne those errours to forget,
Which us in Thy displeasure set.

Returne (O Lord!) and now repent
At our endured punishment.
How long wilt Thou thy help delay,
Or not remove our woes away?
O satisfy our Soule with joyes,
To recompense Lifes past annoyes.
Afford us comfort for those yeares,
We were enforc'd to spend in teares.

Lord! Let Thy glorious work appeare,
Thy servants from the dust to reare.
That all succeeding times may know,
What praises to thy Name we owe.
O let thy beames of favour shine
On those, who in death's shade have ly
Grant that for which we prayers make
And prosper all we undertake.

University of Virginia Library

Psal. XC.