CXLIV.
1
Blest be the Lord, my strength, who taught
My hands hath to mak ware;
By whom my fingers, 'gainst my foes,
To fight instructed ar.
2
My gudenes, fort and towre hee is,
Me who in straits setts free,
My scheild, my trust, Hee who subdues
My people vnder me.
3
Lord, what is man, that with respect
Or notice him thow dainst?
Or what the sone of man, of him
That myndfull thow remainst?
4
Man lyk to vanity, whose dayes
As schadows swift we sie,
Which but apeare in passeing by,
And gone ar instantly.
5
Thy heavins, O Lord, bow by thy might,
And from above discend.
The mountains touch and they shall smoak.
6
Forth fyre and lightning send,
And scatter them; thyne arrows schote
7
And them destroy. From high
Thy hand let doune; from watters great
Red and deliver me.
O Saue me from strang children's hands,
8
Whose wicked mouths do vent
Things false and vaine, whose right hand is
A right hand fraudulent.
9
A new song, Lord, to thee I'le sing;
The psaltory I'le take,
And on a ten string'd instrument
To thee I'le musick make.
10
The Lord it is alone to kings
Who gives the victory.
Hee, from the hurtfull sword, doth sett
His servant David free.
11
O, red and save me from their hand,
Whose mouths doe lyes relate;
From children strange, whose right hand is
A right hand of deceate;
12
That lyk to speady riseing plants,
In youth our sonns may bee;
Our daughters as fair corner stones,
Which cutt ar curiously
For raiseing some rair edifice;
13
That victualls for our vse,
Our garners stuft, in plenty may,
Of evry kynd, produce.
That thousands in our streets, our flocks,
Ten thousands may of yong
14
Bring forth; that, labour to endure,
Our oxen may be strong;
That no irruptioune be at all,
No breaking forth from hence;
That in our streets no cry be hard
Of wrong or violence.
15
Of people, thus with whom it fares,
O the exceeding blesse.
Of people, O, the happy state,
Whose God Jehovah is.
