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To thee will I direct my pray❜r,

To thee lift up mine eye.

2 Up to the hills where Chrift is gone,
To plead for all his faints,
Prefenting at his Father's throne
Our fongs and our complaints.

3 Thou art a God, before whofe fight
The wicked fhall not stand,
Sinners shall ne'er be thy delight,
Nor dwell at thy right-hand.
4 But to thy houfe will I refort,
To tafte thy mercies there;
I will frequent thine holy court,
And worship in thy fear.

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5 O may thy Spirit guide my
In ways of righteoufnefs!
Make ev'ry path of duty straight,
And plain before my face.

PAUSE.

6 My watchful enemies combine
To tempt my feet aftray;
They flatter with a bafe defign,
To make my foul their prey.

7 Lord, crush the ferpent in the duft, And all his plots destroy;

While those that in thy mercy truft,
For ever fhout for joy.

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8 The men that love and fear thy name Shall fee their hopes fulfill'd;

The mighty God will compafs them
With favour as a fhield.

PSALM VI. Common Metre. Complaint in Sickness: or, Diseases healed. IN anger, Lord, rebuke me not,

Withdraw the dreadful storm:

Nor let thy fury grow so hot,
Against a feeble worm.

2 My foul bow'd down with heavy cares,
My flesh with pain oppreft:
My couch is witness to my tears,
My tears forbid my reft.

3 Sorrow and pain wear out my days;
I waste the night with cries,
Counting the minutes as they pafs,
Till the flow morning rife.

4

Shall I be still tormented more?
My eyes confum'd with grief;
How long, my God, how long before
Thine hand afford relief?

5 He hears when duft and ashes speak,
He pities all our groans,
He faves us for his mercies fake,
And heals our broken bones.

6 The virtue of his fov'reign word
Reftores our fainting breath;
For filent graves praife not the Lord,
Nor is he known in death.

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PSALM VI. Long Metre.
Temptations in Sickness overcome.
ORD, I can fuffer thy rebukes,
When thou with kindness doft chastife;

But thy fierce wrath I cannot bear,
O let it not against me rife.

2 Pity my languishing estate,

And ease the forrows that I feel;

The wounds thine heavy hand hath made,
O let thy gentler touches heal!

3 See how I pafs my weary days

3

In fighs and groans; and when 'tis night,
My bed is water'd with my tears;

My grief confumes, and dims my fight.
4 Look how the pow'rs of nature mourn!
How long, almighty God, how long?
When fhall thine hour of grace return?
When shall I make thy grace my fong?
5 I feel my flesh so near the grave,
My thoughts are tempted to despair;
But graves can never praise the Lord,
For all is duft and filence there.
6 Depart, ye tempters, from my foul,
And all despairing thoughts depart;
My God who hears my humble moan,
Will eafe my flesh, and chear my heart,

PSALM VII.

God's Care of his People, and Punishment of Perfecutors.

Y truft is in my heav'nly friend,

M My hope in thee, my God

Rife, and my helpless life defend
From thofe that feek my blood.
2 With infolence and fury they
My foul in pieces tear,
As hungry lions rend the prey
When no deliv'rer's near.

3 If I had e'er provok'd them first, Or once abus'd my foe,

4

Then let him tread my life to duft,
And lay mine honour low.

If there be malice found in me,
I know thy piercing eyes;
I fhould not dare appeal to thee,
Nor afk my God to rife.

Arife, my God, lift up thy hand,
Their pride and pow'r controul;
Awake to judgment, and command
Deliv'rance for my foul.

PAUSE.

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6 [Let finners and their wicked rage
Be humbled to the duft;

Shall not the God of truth engage
To vindicate the juft?

7 He knows the heart, he tries the reins,
He will defend th' upright;
His fharpeft arrows he ordains
Against the fons of spite.

8 For me their malice digg'd a pit,
But there themselves are caft;
My God makes all their mischief light
On their own heads at laft.]

9 That cruel perfecuting race

Muft feel his dreadful fword.

Awake, my foul, and praise the grace,
And justice of the Lord.

PSALM VIII. Short Metre.

God's Sovereignty and Goodness: and Man's Do minion over the Creatures.

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Thy glories round the earth are spread,

And o'er the heav'ns they fhine.

2 When to thy works on high
I raise my wond'ring eyes,
And fee the moon complete in light,
Adorn the darkfome skies:

3 When I furvey the stars

And all their fhining forms,

Lord, what is man, that worthless thing,
A-kin to duft and worms?

4 Lord, what is worthless man
That thou should'st love him fo?

Next to thine angels is he plac'd,
And lord of all below.

5 Thine honours crown his head,
While beafts, like slaves obey,
And birds that cut the air with wings,
And fish that cleave the sea.

6 How rich thy bounties are!
And wond'rous are thy ways:

Of duft and worms thy pow'r can frame
A monument of praife.

7 [Out of the mouth of babes

And fucklings thou canst draw Surprifing honours to thy name,

And ftrike the world with awe.

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