PSALM CXXXIX.

George Burgess

Thou art about the path I tread;
Thou art around my nightly bed;
And not a word is on my tongue,
But in thy sight, O Lord, it sprung.

Surrounded by thy pow'r I stand;
Where'er I turn, I feel thy hand:
Such wisdom tow'rs beyond my sight;
Far, far too high for mortal flight.

If e'er my soul could long for wings,
To shun thy might, O King of kings,
Where from thy Spirit could I hide,
Or where, beyond thy beams abide?

If high as heav'n I strive to soar,
There angels round thy throne adore;
If down to hell's dread couch I bow,
There, in thy terrors. Lord, art thou.

If on the morning's plumes I flee,
To dwell beyond the utmost sea,
Thy hand should still my path prepare,
Thy strong right arm should meet me there.

Or, if I ask the shroud of night,
Lo, midnight's gloom shall beam with light:
There is no night beneath thy ray,
But darkness shines like dawning day.

My inmost heart, O Lord, is thine;
Thou wov'st around each subtle line;
And glad my soul the praise shall tell
Of him whose work she knows so well.

Long ere to light and life it came,
Thou form'd'st this strange and awful frame:
Where deep in earth no eye could see,
The secret work was watch'd by thee.

All shone beneath thy piercing look,
And all was written in thy book;
While, day by day, the members grew,
Nor yet their form and beauty knew.

How dear to me thy thoughts of good!
How vast they greet my musing mood!
The ocean sands far fewer lie:
I sleep, I wake, and thou art nigh.

Thy conquering sword the proud shall slay:
Omen of blood, away, away!
For loud, O Lord, their curses ring,
While on thy name their scorn they fling.

Hate I not them that hate thee, Lord;
That lift rebellion's arms abhorr'd?
I loathe, I dread, the dark design,
And all the foes of God are mine.

Search, search me, thou who look'st within,
And try my thoughts' most secret sin:
Pour down thy beams where'er I stray,
And lead me in th' eternal way.