PSALM LXXXVIII.

George Burgess

My soul is fill'd with weary woes;
Around my life the shadows close:
A man, whose manly pow'rs are fled,
E'en now they count me with the dead;

With them who sink to earth's cold caves,
The prostrate, couch'd in bloody graves,
From thy forbearing mercy pass'd,
From thy strong hand to ruin cast.

There thou hast fix'd my cheerless doom,
Low in the depth's unfathom'd gloom:
Thy hand is heavy on my soul,
And all thy billows o'er me roll.

Thou turn'st aside my neighbour's face;
Afar he shuns my loath'd embrace:
And, prison'd where I cannot fly,
I close my dim, decaying eye.

To thee, each day, my pray'r is made,
To thee my hands are stretch'd for aid:
Oh, shall the dead thy wonders learn,
The dead to speak thy praise return?

Shall love be whisper'd in the grave,
Destruction tell thy truth to save?
In darkness shall thy wonders blaze,
Oblivion's land thy justice praise?

To thee, O Lord, to thee I cry;
My pray'r ascends the dawning sky:
Why leav'st thou me alone to stray,
Ana turn'st thy glorious face away?

E'en from my youth, with anguish torn,
Thy chast'ning stroke my soul hath borne:
Thy wrathful storm my path o'erflows;
Till day amidst thy terrors close.

With ceaseless swell around they roar,
A circling sea without a shore;
No form of friend or brother nigh,
No sight of love to light mine eye!