PSALM CXXIV.

George Burgess

Had not his arm the battle turn'd,
And broke the impious strife,
The wrath of man had onward burn'd,
And whelm'd our forfeit life.

The mighty floods, the floods of pride,
No more had ceas'd to roll,
Till deep beneath their stormy tide
Had sunk the victim's soul.

Bless'd be the Lord! He hath not giv'n
Our souls to be their prey:
So, when the fowler's snare is riv'n,
Far soars the bird away.

The snare is riv'n, and we are free:
To God our spirits rise;
For all our aid comes down from thee,
Who mad'st the earth and skies.