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

Lord! thou hast throughly searched me,
I open am, and know'n to Thee:
My sitting downe, and my up-rise
Are not concealed from Thine eyes:
Thou understand'st my distant thought,
Ere it to forme my self had brought.
Thou circlest in my path, and bed,
And hast my waies discovered.

Thou hear'st each whisper from my tongue
And ere 'twas utter'd, knew'st it long.
By Thee I fashion'd, am and made,
Thy hand each part in order lay'd.
Yet can I not the knowledge gaine,
How I this being did attaine;

267

Which doth in wonder so excell,
'Tis easier to admire, then tell.

How shall I from Thy spirit fly?
Or Thy all present pow'r deny?
If I climbe Heav'n, 'tis Thine own Sphære:
If stoop to Hell, lo, Thou art there.
If borne upon the mornings wing,
Far as the Sea doth swell, or spring;
Thy Right hand shall protect and lead,
Where ere my weary footsteps tread.

If I pretend the darknes shall
Upon me, like a cov'ring, fall;
Those heavy fogs, those mists of night,
Will quickly cleare, and turne to light.
The thickest shade, or blackest cloud,
Can nothing from thy knowledg shrow'd:
For darkness doth like Noon-tide shine,
Light'ned by brighter beams of Thine.

My reines are Thine: Thou mad'st the womb
My bodies cloathing to become.
I will give thanks to Thee, O Lord,
Who was enlived by Thy word:
With awfull art, and wond'rous forme
Thou did'st Thy workmanship adorne.
My soule These marvels must confess,
And for Thy favours daily bless.

268

Though I was fashion'd in the dark,
Too secretly for man to mark,
There is no curious joynt, or bone,
But was to Thy inspection know'n.
Thou did'st upon my substance look,
And wrot'st each member in Thy book:
Thou saw'st how my imperfect frame
By daily growth to figure came.

O Lord, how pretious, O how deare
Thy purposes and thoughts appeare!
Which were they summ'd in my account,
They would the num'rous sands surmount.
These wonders alwaies present ly,
Fixt in my thankfull memory:
And whil'st of them surveies I take,
My contemplation still must wake.

O God! Thou shalt the wicked slay:
Ye bloody men depart away:
For their fowle tongues Thy honour staine,
And take Thy sacred Name in vaine.
Do not I hate, and grieve at those,
Whose proud despight against thee rose?
With perfect hate I them despise,
Accounting them mine enemies.

Search me (O Lord!) and prove my heart,
Who Judg of all my actions art:

269

Do Thou my faith to tryall bring,
My hidden thoughts examining:
Look well, and all my motions view,
If I persist in waies untrue:
And when Thou find'st my feet to stray,
Reduce me to Thy lasting way.

University of Virginia Library

Psal. CXXXIX.