5 The Wretch that meditates Deceit
I'll not endure a Night!
The Liar's Tongue I ever hate,
And banish from my Sight.

6 I'll purge my Family around,
And make the Wicked flee !
So fhall my Houfe be ever found
A Dwelling meet for Thee.

I

H

EAR me, O GOD, nor hide thy Face,
But anfwer, left I die:

Haft Thou not built a Throne of Grace,
To hear when Sinners cry?

2 My Days are wafted like the Smoke
Diflolving in the Air:

My Strength is dry'd, my Heart is broke,
And finking in Despair.

3 So walks the Pelican diftreft,

4

The Bird of Night fo fhrieks: So the fad Sparrow, from his Neft, His loft Companion feeks.

Senfe can afford no real Joy

To Souls that feel thy Frown; LORD, 'twas thy Hand advanc'd me high, Thy Hand hath caft me down.

5 I like a wither'd Leaf appear;
And Life's declining Light

Grows faint as Ev'ning Shadows are,
That vanifh into Night.

6 But Thou for ever art the fame, my eternal God;

Ages to come fhall know thy Name,
And spread thy Works abroad.

7 Thou wilt arife, and fhew thy Face,"
Nor will my LORD delay
Beyond th' appointed Hour of Grace,
That long-expected Day.

8 He hears his Saints, He knows their Cry,
And by mysterious Ways
Redeems the Pris'ners doom'd to die,
And fills their Tongues with Praise.

PART II.

9 LET Zion and her Sons rejoice,
Behold the promis'd Hour:

Her GOD hath heard her mourning Voice,
And comes t'exalt his Pow'r.

10 Her Duft and Ruins that remain
Are precious in our Eyes;
Those Ruins fhall be built again,
And all that Duft fhall rife.

11 The LORD will raife Jerufalem,
And ftand in Glory there;
Nations fhall bow before his Name,
And Kings attend with Fear.

12 He fits a Sov'reign on his Throne,
With Pity in his Eyes:

He hears the dying Pris'ners groan,
And fees their Sighs arise.

13 He frees the Souls condemn'd to Death, And when his Saints complain,

"Twill ne'er be faid, "That praying Breath "Was ever spent in vain.”

14 This fhall be known when we are dead, And left on long Record,

That Ages yet unborn may read,
And truft and praise the LORD.

PART III.

15 IT is the LORD our SAVIOUR'S Hand
Weakens our Strength amidst the Race;
Disease and Death at his Command
Arreft us, and cut short our Days.

16 Spare us, O LORD, aloud we pray,
Nor let our Sun go down at Noon;
Thy Years are one eternal Day,
And must thy Children die fo foon?

17 Yet in the Midft of Death and Grief, This Thought our Sorrow shall afsuage; "Our FATHER and our SAVIOUR live; "CHRIST is the fame through ev'ry Age.' 18 'Twas He this Earth's Foundation laid Heav'n is the Building of his Hand; [fade, This Earth grows old, thefe Heav'ns fhall And all be chang'd at his Command.

19 The ftarry Curtains of the Sky,
Like Garments, fhall be laid afide ;
But still thy Throne ftands firm and high;
Thy Church for ever must abide.

20 Before thy Face thy Church fhall live, And on thy. Throne thy Children reign; This dying World fhall they furvive, And the dead Saints be rais'd again.

I

2

PSALM CIII. Metre i.

BLESS the LORD, my Soul !
Let all within me join,

And aid my Tongue to blefs his Name,
Whofe Favours are divine.

O blefs the LORD, my Soul!
Nor let his Mercies lie
Forgotten in Unthankfulness ;

And without Praises die.

3

'Tis He forgives thy Sins,
'Tis He relieves thy Pain,

4.

'Tis He who heals thy Sickneffes,

And makes thee young again.

He crowns thy Life with Love,
When ranfom'd from the Grave;
He that redeem'd my Soul from Hell,
Hath fov'reign Pow'r to fave.

5

He fills the Poor with Good;

He gives the Suffrers Reft;

6

The LORD hath Judgments for the Proud,

And Juftice for th' Oppreft.

His wondrous Works and Ways
He made by Mofes known;

But fent the World his Truth and Grace,
By his beloved Son.

PART H.

MY Soul repeat his Praise,
Whofe Mercies are fo great;
Whofe Anger is fo flow to rife,
So ready to abate.

GOD will not always chide;
And when his Strokes are felt,

His Strokes are fewer than our Crimes,
And lighter than our Guilt.

High as the Heav'ns are rais'd
Above the Ground we tread,
So far the Riches of his Grace
Our higheft Thoughts exceed.
His Pow'r fubdues our Sins,
And his forgiving Love

Far as the Eaft is from the West,
Doth all our Guilt remove.

The Pity of the LORD

To thofe that fear his Name,
Is fuch as tender Parents feel;
He knows our feeble Frame..

He knows we are but Duft
Scatter'd with ev'ry Breath;
His Anger, like a rifing Wind,
Can fend us fwift to Death!

Our Days are as the Grafs,
Or like the Morning-Flower:

If one sharp Blast sweep o'er the Field,
It withers in an Hour.