Psalm CXLVII.
1
Praise ye the Lord, for it is good,
Unto our God to sing:
And to exalt his holy name,
A sweet and comely thing.
2
The Lord will surely build again
His own Jerusalem:
And the disperst of Israel
The Lord will gather them.
3
He heals the broken in their hearts,
Their wounds he bindeth well:
He counts the number of the stars,
And all their names can tell.
4
Great is the Lord, and great his power,
His knowledge has no bound:
He loves to raise the humble man,
And cast the wicked down.
5
Sing to the Lord upon the harp,
In sweet and pleasant strain;
Who overspreads the heaven with clouds,
And so prepares the rain.
6
'Tis he that makes the grass to grow
Upon the mountains high:
He feeds the beasts; and he relieves
Young ravens, when they cry.
7
In strength of horse, or legs of man,
The Lord doth not delight;
But they that fear and trust in him,
Are pleasant in his sight.
8
O praise the Lord, Jerusalem,
O Zion do no less:
Who fortifi'd thy gates with bars,
And did thy children bless.
9
He sends thee peace in all thy coasts,
That all is calm and still:
And with the finest of the wheat
He doth thy garners fill,
10
He does but only give command,
And streight the order flies:
The snow like wool about is spread,
And frost like ashes lies.
11
His ice like morsels out is cast,
And bitter cold is felt:
But when he speaks, the wind is turn'd,
And all begins to melt.
12
His word to Jacob he declar'd,
And statutes did relate:
His judgments all to Israel
He did communicate.
13
There is no nation in the world,
That has enjoy'd his word:
Nor known his laws as they have done,
Wherefore praise ye the Lord.
