PSALM IX.

George Burgess

When on my foes thy terrors shine,
They fall in shameful flight:
For judgment's spotless throne is thine,
And thou maintain'st the right.

And thou hast quell'd the heathen's rage,
And slain the impious race;
And from the tale of age to age
Hast swept th' oppressor's trace.

Destruction's mighty task is fill'd,
And pompous tow'rs are heaps:
And, mid the piles that none shall build,
Their lords' lost mem'ry sleeps.

But firm th' eternal throne abides,
The righteous Sov'reign reigns:
The realms of earth his sceptre guides,
And judgment just sustains.

The Lord shall shield the heart oppress'd,
Shall shield when perils low'r:
Who know thy name on thee shall rest,
And trust thy faithful pow'r.

Sing, to the Lord of Sion sing;
Tell all the world his deeds;
When blood and wrong his vengeance bring,
The humblest cry he heeds.

Have mercy, Lord, and mark my woe,
The sport of causeless hate:
Thou Lifter of the poor and low
From death's eternal gate;

That, where thy thronging people meet,
My song of praise may swell,
Till thine own Sion's queenly street
Of thy deliv'rance tell.

Where heathen hands have spread the net,
There heathen feet have trod:
They mourn the snares themselves have set,
And know the righteous God.

The crowds who spurn his gentler reign
In hell's dark realm shall lie:
Not long shall weep the poor in vain,
Nor all his hope shall die.

Arise, O Lord, nor in thy sight
Let heathen pride prevail:
So let them own but man's their might,
And man how brief and frail!