PSALM LIII.

George Burgess

God from the throne above
Look'd o'er th' unnumbered race,
If any walk'd in wisdom's love,
If any sought his grace.

All, all are turn'd away,
To common ruin run;
Where'er may fall his eye's keen ray,
None doeth good, not one.

And know they naught, nor heed,
Whose hands with crime are red,
Whose pray'rless wants my flock must feed,
As feeds their common bread?

Fearfully fear'd the frail,
And yet no fear there came;
God breaks the arms that thee assail,
And thou may'st scorn their shame.

Oh, were salvation come
From Sion's holy King!
What joy shall light the exile's home,
When God his own shall bring!