PSALM CXLI.

George Burgess

Oh, let my early pray'r
Like morning incense rise;
And mine uplifted hands prepare
An evening sacrifice.
My lips, O Lord, surround
With gate and watch and bar;
And from my bosom's hallow'd ground
Drive evil thoughts afar.

Nor let my hand be press'd
To hands that joy in sin;
Nor let me come, a guilty guest,
Where revels guilt within.

When righteous lips shall chide,
The voice of love I know:
Like healing oil their accents glide,
And I must bless the blow.

It bows not low my head
With anguish and despair;
But more the sinner's paths I dread,
And lift my humbler pray'r.

When down each rocky dell
Their fleeing chiefs are hurl'd,
Sweetly my strain of praise shall swell,
And win the list'ning world.

For now our bones are left,
All strew'd around the grave,
Like boughs that late the woodman cleft
Around some forest cave.

But still, O God my King,
I turn me to thy throne:
To thee my stedfast hope would cling;
Oh, leave me ne'er alone.

Oh, save me, close beset
By toils that sinners lay:
Ensnare them in their own false net,
And bear me safe away!