PSALM XLIV.

George Burgess

How, from the land thy promise gave,
Thine arm the heathen banners drave,
And deep the root of Israel cast,
And spread his branches to the blast.

Not his own sword the battle fought.
Not his own hand deliv'rance wrought;
Thy smile above his armies shin'd,
And they were strong, for thou wast kind.

Still, God of hosts, art thou our King;
Oh, still thine Israel's succour bring:
Through thee we push the wav'ring foe,
Through thy strong name we tread them low.

I will not trust my bow or blade;
Thou, thou hast driv'n their bands dismay'd:
In God our boast on high we raise,
And shout our Saviour's endless praise.

But thou hast cast thy people off,
And they must hear th' oppressor's scoff;
Thou lead'st no more our weak array;
We flee, we fall, a helpless prey.

Like flocks for food, our tribes have bled,
Or slaves in distant realms are led;
To Gentile hands, and not for gold,
The Lord his chosen race has sold.

The shout of scorn is ringing near;
The heathen's laugh is in our ear;
They make our name their proverb's strain,
And shake the head in loud disdain.

Shame bows mine eye, where'er it turns;
With shame my cheek unceasing burns;
Because the foes of God rejoice,
The bold blasphemer lifts his voice.

So dark has come our weary lot;
Yet is not, Lord, thy name forgot;
Thy cov'nant's bond we ne'er belied,
Nor turn'd our heart or feet aside.

Oh, could we e'er that name disown,
And spread our hands to gods unknown,
Where slept the eye, whose piercing view
Looks all the soul's deep secrets through?

Yet, crush'd we lie where dragons tread;
And death's dim shades are round us spread:
All day for thee we yield our life,
Like flocks that wait the slaught'ring knife.

Awake, O Lord: why sleeps thine eye?
Arise, nor cast us off to die!
Why hides thy smile its golden light,
While scorn and sorrow load the night?

In dust our soul bows down and grieves;
Prone to the earth our body cleaves:
Oh, for thine own dear mercy's sake,
To our redemption, Lord, awake!