PSALM XXVII.

George Burgess

On came the wicked's rushing pow'r,
Th' oppressor and the foe:
They came, to trample and devour;
They fell, and grovell'd low.

Though hosts their camp against me spread,
My soul shall fear no ill;
Though war uprear its angry head,
My hope shall triumph still.

One boon my pray'rs from God request,
And trust his grace to give;
That in his temple's holy rest
I all my years may live.

There, I shall see his radiance fair,
And on his glory gaze;
And find my quiet refuge there
In evil's gloomiest days.

He bids me safe, in still repose,
In his pavilion lie;
He, on a rock o'er all my foes,
Exalts my head on high.

So I, within his house of pray'r.
Will grateful off'rings bring;
Fill with my strains that sacred air,
And God's high praises sing.

Hear thou my voice, that humbly cries,
And answ'ring favour speak!
\"Seek ye my face!\" my heart replies,
Thy face, O Lord, I seek.

Nor hide thy face, with wrathful brow.
Nor be my pray'r abhorr'd:
Till now my help, forsake not now,
My Saviour, and my Lord!

Father and mother may forsake;
The Lord shall then sustain:
Oh, guide me, Lord, thy way to take,
And let that way be plain.

For, many foes would hem my path,
And men of falsehood rise:
Oh, give me not to slake their wrath,
That breathes but threats and lies.

Had I not hop'd thy love to see.
Nor life's fair land depart!
Wait on the Lord, and he shall free;
Wait on the Lord, my heart!