PSALM XIV.

George Burgess

From heav'n look'd down the Lord,
O'er all th' unnumber'd race,
If any lov'd his wisdom's word,
Or sought his faithful grace.

All, all are turn'd away.
To common ruin run:
Where'er may fall his eye's keen ray,
None doeth good, not one.

And know they naught, nor heed,
Whose hands with crime are red,
Whose pray'rless wants my flock must feed,
As feeds their common bread?

Fearful shall be their fear,
For God surrounds the just:
Who hopes in him your taunts may hear,
And triumph in his trust.

Oh, were salvation come
From Sion's holy King!
What joy shall light the exile's home,
When God his own shall bring!