PSALM XC.

George Burgess

Ere thou hadst rear'd the mountain's brow,
Or made this vale of tears,
From years eternal, God art thou,
To still eternal years.

But man his last, forgotten way,
At thy commandment goes:
Thou speak'st, \"return, ye sons of clay,\"
And all their journeyings close.

A thousand years beneath thy sight
Like yester evening seem.
Like one short watch of silent night,
A slumb'rer's fleeting dream.

Thy floods sweep o'er us, and we pass,
As meadow flow'rets fade;
Fair blooms at morn the waving grass,
And falls ere evening's shade.

For in thy wrath's consuming might
Our spirits droop and die:
Our secret sins are spread in light
Beneath thy piercing eye.

Swift, like a tale, is gone the space
Assign'd to mortal men;
And scarce thy wrath allows the race
To threescore years and ten:

Or if, by strength, some hoary head
Its fourscore winters bear,
Yet weak the strength, and sad the tread
That bows with weary care.

So soon must life on pinions flee,
So swift our joys depart:
Yet, who will all thy terrors see,
And fear thee as thou art?

Oh, teach us, teach us, Lord, to learn
The measure of our days;
That so our wandering steps may turn
To thy true wisdom's ways.

Return, O Lord! how long? how long?
Oh, yield thy servants peace;
And early wake our grateful song
To joy that shall not cease.

As thou hast giv'n us weary days,
And shown us years of woe,
So give us on thy light to gaze,
So yet thy glory show.

And on us, Lord, and on our seed,
Let thy fair favour shine:
And build the work our hands would speed,
Oh, build it firm for thine.