PSALM XXII.

George Burgess

Yet thou art holy; and thy seat
Is where the songs of Israel meet:
With trust our fathers call'd thy name;
With trust, and thy deliv'rance came.

They were not sham'd; but I am base,
A worm, an outcast from my race;
The scorn of men whose impious crowd
Look on my pains, and mock aloud.

They shoot the lip, the head they wave;
\"He trusted in the Lord to save;
Upon the Lord he cast his care;
Then, hear the Lord his fav'rite's pray'r.\"

Yet art thou he whose hand from naught
To life my infant members brought:
And when I clasp'd my mother's breast,
Thou wert my God, and thou my rest.

Oh, go not far, for trouble nears,
And none save thee in aid appears:
Strong bulls of Bashan gird me round,
And ramping lions toss the ground.

My limbs, my heart, melt fast away;
My strength departs, as dries the clay;
With parching tongue, I pant for breath,
Brought downward to the dust of death.

Dogs rage around, the vile, the fierce;
My bleeding hands and feet they pierce;
On my spent form with joy they stare,
And with the lot my vesture share.

Oh, go not far, my strength, my Lord:
Make haste to save me from the sword:
From dogs, from lions, shield my life.
And bear me from the bulls' wild strife.

I'll tell thy name with joyous song
Amidst my brethren's gath'ring throng:
Oh, praise and fear that name divine,
Thou seed of Israel's honour'd line.

He will not laugh when mourners mourn;
He will not mock with loathing scorn;
He will not turn his face away;
But hears the humblest lips that pray.

My song of praise for thee shall sound,
Where ransom'd saints adore around:
And where thy host in bliss shall bow,
Shall stand redeem'd my grateful vow.

There, the meek suff'rer shall rejoice,
Feast in thy love, and lift his voice:
The heart that pray'd, in praise shall soar,
And beat with life that dies no more.

Earth's utmost bounds shall hear and turn,
All tribes and realms thy worship learn;
For God the Lord all empire owns,
And rules amidst their thousand thrones.

All, all shall kneel: the rich of earth
Shall feast and bow in hallow'd mirth,
And they who down to dust draw nigh,
And scarce can stay th' expiring sigh.

A seed shall serve him, rising fair;
The Lord's own name their race shall bear:
And unborn lines of sire and son
Shall tell what deeds the Lord hath done.