PSALM LXXIV.

Tate and Brady

2 Think on thy ancient purchase, Lord,
The land that is thy own;
By thee redeem'd, and Sion's mount,
Where once thy glory shone.

3 O come, and view our ruin'd state!
How long our troubles last!
See how the foe, with wicked rage,
Has laid thy temple waste!

4 Thy foes blaspheme thy Name, where late
Thy zealous servants pray'd;
The heathen there, with haughty pomp,
Their banners have display'd.

5, 6 Those curious carvings, which did once
Advance the artist's fame,
With ax and hammer they destroy,
Like works of vulgar frame.

7 Thy holy temple they have burnt:
And what escap'd the flame
Has been profan'd, and quite defac'd,
Though sacred to thy Name.

8 Thy worship wholly to destroy
Maliciously they aim'd;
And all the sacred places burn'd,
Where we thy praise proclaim'd.

9 Yet of thy presence thou vouchsaf'st
No tender signs to send;
We have no prophet now, that knows
When this sad state shall end.

10 But, Lord, how long wilt thou permit
Th' insulting foe to boast?
Shall all the honour of thy Name
For evermore be lost?

11 Why hold'st thou back thy strong right hand,
And on thy patient breast,
When vengeance calls to stretch it forth,
So calmly lett'st it rest?

12 Thou heretofore, with kingly pow'r,
In our defence hast fought;
For us, throughout the wond'ring world,
Hast great salvation wrought.

13 'Twas thou, O God, that didst the sea
By thy own strength divide;
Thou brak'st the wat'ry monsters' heads,
The waves o'erwhelm'd their pride.

14 The greatest, fiercest of them all,
That seem'd the deep to sway,
Was by thy pow'r destroy'd, and made
To savage beasts a prey.

15 Thou clav'st the solid rock, and mad'st
The waters largely flow;
Again thou mad'st through parted streams
Thy wond'ring people go.

16 Thine is the cheerful day, and thine
The black return of night;
Thou hast prepar'd the glorious sun,
And ev'ry feebler light.

17 By thee the borders of the earth
In perfect order stand;
The summer's warmth, and winter's cold,
Attend on thy command.

18 Remember, Lord, how scornful foes
Have daily urg'd our shame;
And how the foolish people have
Blasphem'd thy holy Name.

19 O free thy mourning turtle-dove,
By sinful crowds beset;
Nor the assembly of thy poor
For evermore forget.

20 Thy ancient cov'nant, Lord, regard,
And make thy promise good;
For now each corner of the land
Is fill'd with men of blood.

21 O let not the oppress'd return
With sorrow cloth'd and shame;
But let the helpless and the poor
For ever praise thy Name.

22 Arise, O God, in our behalf,
Thy cause and ours maintain;
Remember how insulting fools
Each day thy Name profane!

23 Make thou the boastings of thy foes
For evermore to cease;
Whose insolence, if unchastis'd,
Will more and more increase.