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.
5 O may thy Spirit guide my In ways of righteoufnefs! Make ev'ry path of duty straight, And plain before my face.
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.
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.
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.
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
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,
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,
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.
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.
God's Sovereignty and Goodness: and Man's Do minion over the Creatures.
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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