PSALM CVII.

George Burgess

He broke their tyrants' iron bands,
And led their armies forth,
From Eastern and from Western lands,
From South and utmost North.

They wander'd on a lonely waste;
No plenteous tow'rs were near;
No stream to soothe their parching taste,
Their fainting soul to cheer:

Then heard the Lord the pilgrims' cry,
And bore them from their woes,
Till bright before their weary eye,
Their home's fair walls arose.

Oh, might his love, on mortals shown,
By mortal songs be spread;
Who stills the thirsty suff'rer's moan,
And fills the poor with bread!

E'en so, where midnight darkness reigns,
And death's still deep'ning shade,
Fast bound in sorrows and in chains,
Their sinking forms they laid.

For from the Lord's commandment just
They turn'd with scorn and shame;
Therefore he bow'd them to the dust,
And no deliv'rer came.

Then heard the Lord the captives' cry,
And bore them from their woes,
And bade the midnight darkness fly,
And death its bonds unclose.

Oh, might his love, on mortals shown,
By mortal songs be spread;
Who broke the brazen portals down,
The bars of iron shred!

So, burning plagues in judgment pour'd
The fools of guilt appal:
Their soul abhors the festal board;
At death's dark gate they fall:

Then hears the Lord the suff'rers' cry,
And bears them from their woes;
He sends his word of healing nigh,
And balm and comfort flows.

Oh, might his love, on mortals shown,
By mortal songs be spread;
And grateful gifts his wonders own,
And shouts of joyous dread!

They that go down upon the deep
Before the fickle breeze,
And there their vent'rous business keep
Upon the mighty seas;

They know the Lord's tremendous hand,
And see his ocean deeds,
When, rising grim at his command,
The thund'ring tempest speeds.

They mount upon the crested wave,
That seems to scale the clouds;
Then, deep beneath, the billowy grave
Their trembling bark enshrouds.

Cold fears o'er all their members steal,
Their melting pow'rs decline,
While on the reeling deck they reel,
Like men o'ercome with wine.

Then hears the Lord the voy'gers' cry,
And bears them from their woes;
Till o'er the gentle waves they spy
Their haven's wish'd repose.

Oh, might his love, on mortals shown,
By mortal songs be spread,
Where pray'rs of myriads seek his throne,
By hoary wisdom led!

He makes the floods a dreary sand,
The streams a desert bare,
And wastes with drought a fruitful land,
When guilt has sojourn'd there.

He makes the sands a lovely lake,
The waste, o'erflowing springs;
And there, his plenteous home to take,
The famish'd exile brings.

They build, they sow, they plant in peace
The vineyard's wealthy ground:
Their households in his smile increase,
Their stately herds abound.

Again, with woe, defeat and need,
Their scatter'd bands decay;
And, cloth'd with scorn, a royal seed
Through pathless deserts stray;

While high above a thousand ills
He lifts the righteous poor;
And like the flocks on many hills,
Their households spread secure.

The just rejoice; and, guilt must gaze,
And ope her lips no more:
Whoe'er is wise shall mark his ways,
And God's dear love adore.