PSALM XLI.

Tate and Brady

2 The Lord his life, with blessings crown'd,
In safety shall prolong;
And disappoint the will of those
That seek to do him wrong.

3 If he, in languishing estate,
Oppress'd with sickness lie;
The Lord will easy make his bed,
And inward strength supply.

4 Secure of this, to thee, my God,
I thus my pray'r address'd:
Lord, for thy mercy, heal my soul,
Though I have much transgress'd.

5 My cruel foes, with sland'rous words,
Attempt to wound my fame;
When shall he die, say they, and men
Forget his very name?

6 Suppose they formal visits make,
'Tis all but empty show,
They gather mischief in their hearts,
And vent it where they go.

7, 8 With private whispers such as these
To hurt me they devise:
A sore disease afflicts him now,
He's fall'n no more to rise.

9 My own familiar bosom friend,
On whom I most relied,
Has me, whose daily guest he was,
With open scorn defied.

10 But thou my sad and wretched state
In mercy, Lord, regard;
And raise me up, that all their crimes
May meet their just reward.

11 By this I know thy gracious ear
Is open when I call;
Because thou suffer'st not my foes
To triumph in my fall.

12 Thy tender care secures my life
From danger and disgrace;
And thou vouchsaf'st to set me still
Before thy glorious face.

13 Let therefore Israel's Lord and God
From age to age be bless'd;
And all the people's glad applause
With loud Amens express'd.