XLII.
1
As after cooleing streams the hinde
Doth pant with passion strong,
My soule with vehement desire,
For thee, O Lord, doth long.
2
My soule thrists ardentlie for God,
Thrists for the living God.
When shall I come? O when appeare
In place of his aboade?
3
Tears feed me day and night, for still,
Where is thy God? say they.
How can I but my heavie soule
Poure out within me ay?
4
Remembring, to the House of God
I midst the presse repair'd,
A preasse, with voyce of joy and prayse,
Which solemne feasts prepard.
5
Why art thow, (O my soule,) cast doun?
Within me greatlie mov'd?
Wayt still on God; Him yet I'le prayse,
His face my health hath prov'd.
6
My God, my soule is sore cast doun,
While I from Jordan's playn,
From Hermon and the lesser hills,
Thee mindeing, mourne in vaine.
7
As roareing of thy water spouts,
Deep vnto deep doth call.
Thy tumbling billowes, waltering waves,
Gone over me are all.
8
Yet God his mercie will command
By day: His song by night
Shall me refresh: To Him I'le pray,
Of life who gave me right.
9
I to the Lord, my Rock, will say,
Why hast thow me forgott?
Why walk I sad becaus of foes
Which my oppression plot?
10
As murdring weapons in my bones,
My foes reproaches are;
While, daylie, me in pryde to ask:
Where is thy God? they dare.
11
Why droupst thow, O dejected soule?
Depriv'st thy self of rest?
Sore greev'd and mov'd, tumultuouslie
Why stirrst thow in my breast?
Wayt, wayt on God: for yet will I
Insist to spread his prayse;
The health of my sad countenance,
My God Hee is alwayes.
