Psalm XLI.
1
The man is blest that lays to heart,
The sufferings of the poor:
For when afflictions him befal,
The Lord will him restore.
2
The Lord in safety will preserve,
And bless him in the land:
And he will not deliver him
Into his enemies hand.
3
When he lies sick, and almost spent,
By force of his disease,
And on his bed can take no rest,
The Lord will send him ease.
4
In my distress I cry'd, and said,
Have mercy, Lord, on me:
And heal my soul which troubled is,
That I offended thee.
5
Mine enemies speak ill of me,
And wish in heart the same:
When will he die, that we may see
The ruine of his name?
6
They come indeed to visit me,
And seem with me to moan:
But mischief plot, and tell it out,
As soon as they are gone.
7
They whisper thus among themselves,
His sickness is so fore,
And he so weak, there is no fear
Of ever rising more.
8
Yea ev'n mine own familiar friend,
On whom I did rely,
Who at my table daily sat,
Became mine enemy.
9
But, Lord, in mercy raise me up,
That I may them requite:
And by that token I shall know,
Thou dost in me delight.
10
And as in my integrity,
Thou hast supported me:
So by thy favour evermore,
I shall preserved be.
11
Blest be the God of Israel,
Let us for ever sing:
And every creature say amen,
Amen, thou heavenly King.
