PSALM CXL.

George Burgess

All day they gather to the strife,
Each tongue a murd'rer's sharpened knife;
The serpent's bite is in their teeth,
The adder's venom lurks beneath.

Then save me, Lord, from treach'rous hands,
From the proud spoiler's cruel bands;
That fast the ambush'd death prepare,
And spread around the net and snare.

O Lord, I cry, my God art thou:
Hear, Lord my God, my suppliant vow;
And lift thy succ'ring shield of might,
That guards my head through fields of fight.

Oh, grant not, Lord, their evil will,
Nor one dark heart's device fulfil;
But let their treach'rous crests be bow'd,
And shame and fear o'erwhelm the proud.

Their lips' own guile shall crush them down;
Red, flaming coals their brows shall crown;
Till deep in yawning fires they sink,
Beneath the pit's eternal brink.

The man whose words are dark and base
Shall fix on earth no lasting place;
And he who loves the guilty deed
From vengeful darts in vain shall speed.

The Lord shall guard the cause oppressed,
And give the weary suff'rer rest:
The just their hymn of thanks shall swell,
And with their God forever dwell.