1 Thy dreadful Anger, Lord, restrain,
and spare a Wretch forlorn:
Correct me not in thy fierce Wrath,
too heavy to be borne.
2 Have Mercy, Lord; for I grow faint,
unable to endure
The Anguish of my aching Bones,
which thou alone canst cure.
3 My tortur'd Flesh distracts my Mind,
and fills my Soul with Grief:
But, Lord, how long wilt thou delay
to grant me thy Relief?
4 Thy wonted Goodness, Lord, repeat,
and ease my troubled Soul:
Lord, for thy wond'rous Mercies sake,
vouchsafe to make me whole.
5 For after Death no more can I
thy glorious Acts proclaim;
No Pris'ner of the silent Grave
can magnify thy Name.
6 Quite tir'd with Pain, with Groaning faint,
no hope of Ease I see;
The Night, that quiets common Griefs,
is spent in Tears by me.
7 My Beauty fades, my Sight grows dim,
my Eyes with Weakness close;
Old Age o'ertakes me, while I think
on my insulting Foes.
8 Depart, ye Wicked; in my Wrongs
ye shall no more rejoice;
For God, I find, accepts my Tears,
and listens to my Voice.
9, 10 He hears, and grants my humble Pray'r;
and they that wish my Fall,
Shall blush and rage, to see that God
protects me from them all.
Text Information | |
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First Line: | Thy dreadful Anger, Lord, restrain |
Language: | English |
Publication Date: | 1760 |
Scripture: |