PSALM XXX.

George Burgess

O Lord my God, thy love hath heal'd,
And brought me from the grave:
The yawning pit its mouth hath seal'd,
For thou wert nigh to save.

Sing to the Lord, ye saints his own,
Sing your Deliv'rer's praise;
And bending tow'rds his holy throne,
Your glad memorial raise.

One moment with his frown oppressed,
We live beneath his ray:
Though weeping bide, an evening guest,
Joy comes at dawn of day.

I said, in my presumptuous sleep,
\"I ne'er shall feel a shock;
Thy favour, Lord, hath fix'd so deep
My mountain's base of rock.\"

Thou hidd'st thy face: in fear and need,
To thee I made my pray'r;
\"What gains the Lord, though I should bleed?
Can dust his truth declare?

Oh, hear, and send thy gracious aid!\"
And thou that aid hast sent;
My step for triumph's dance array'd,
My mournful sackcloth rent;

And girt me round with grateful joy,
That I may ceaseless sing:
Thus shall thy praise my pow'rs employ,
O Lord, my heav'nly King!