University of Virginia Library

PSALM XXXVIII.

O Spare me, Lord, nor o'er my head
The fulness of thy vengeance shed.
Pierc'd by thy shafts, great God, I stand,
And feel the pressure of thy hand.
Thou seest, from health estrang'd, my frame
The terrors of thy wrath proclaim,
While conscious guilt alarms my breast,
And robs my tortur'd joints of rest.
Whelm'd with a weight of sins I mourn,
A weight too heavy to be borne;
My wounds, whose smart those sins repays,
The wide-infected air betrays.
See! bow'd, from morn to eve, with woe,
And wrapt in sackcloth drear, I go;
My reins with hidden torments wrung,
Each limb diseas'd, each nerve unstrung,
Aloud my suff'rings I bemoan,
And fainting pour the frequent groan.
But Thou, e'er yet my groans proceed,
My griefs and inmost wish canst read.
Behold my heart with anguish torn,
My strength with long affliction worn,
And stretch'd before my wasted sight
The shadows of approaching night.
Each Neighbour's eye with silent gaze
My alter'd lineaments surveys;
My Friends, and next Allies by birth,
(Once kind Companions of my mirth,
When wing'd with health the moments flew,)
My griefs with distant horror view.
With snares my foes beset my way,
Intent on death throughout the day
With fiercest rage my name revile,
And discipline their thoughts to guile:
Invented crimes, and taunts severe,
With steadiest patience, Lord, I hear,
Unmov'd, as One who deaf and mute
Nor censure feels nor can refute:
For Thou, best Advocate, art nigh,
On Thee, great God, my hopes rely;
O vindicate my fame from wrong,
And silence the reproachful tongue.
Thou know'st the tenour of my pray'r;
O let me not their insults bear:
Mark, when my steps have chanc'd to slide,
The shouts that rise on ev'ry side,
And, echoing through the wounded air,
The triumphs of their heart declare.
Thou seest how prone to lapse my feet,
What woes my eyes incessant meet;
Nor shuns my soul its guilt to own,
But sorrowing bows before thy throne.
How strong, how num'rous, are the foes
That unprovok'd my peace oppose,
Their veins with health's full current warm,
And strung with active might their arm!
Ill for my Good return'd I find,
Nor know from aught (but that, inclin'd
To Good, their deeds I shun,) to date
The ground of their prepost'rous hate.
O let me, rais'd by Thee, no more
The absence of thine aid deplore;
God of my life, recede not far,
But haste, and make that life thy care.