PSALM CXLII.

George Burgess

When griefs my fainting soul o'erflow,
Thou know'st the lonely way I go:
Thou see'st the toils thy foes have spread,
To snare thy servant's guileless tread.

In vain around I turn mine eye;
At my right hand no friend is nigh:
My distant refuge fades away;
And no man seeks me where I stray.

O Lord my Saviour, thus to thee,
Without a hope beside, I flee;
To thee, my shelter from the strife,
My portion in the land of life.

Oh, mark on high my suppliant vow,
For low with burd'ning griefs I bow:
And bear me from the slayer's might,
That fast pursues my feeble flight.

Redeem me from these captive chains,
That I may lift my fateful strains,
Where thine own saints shall gather near,
And love thy works of love to hear.