1 Thy dreadful Ange, Lord, restrain,
and spare a Wretch forlorn:
Correct me not in thy fierce Wrath,
too heavy to be borne.
2 Have Mercy, Lord; for I grow faint,
unable to endure
The Anguish of my aching Bones,
which thou alone canst cure.
3 My tortur'd Flesh distracts my Mind,
and fills my Soul with Grief:
But, Lord, how long wilt thou delay
to grant me thy Relief?
4 Thy wonted Goodness, Lord, repeat,
and ease my troubled Soul:
Lord, for thy wond'rous Mercies sake,
vouchsafe to make me whole.
5 For after Death no more can I
thy glorious Acts proclaim;
No Pris'ner of the silent Grave
can magnify thy Name.
6 Quite tir'd with Pain, with Groaning faint,
no hope of Ease i see;
The Night,t hat quiets common Griefs,
is spent in Tears by me.
7 My Beauty fades, my Sight grows dim,
my Eyes with Weakness close;
Old Age o'ertakes me, whilst I think
on my insulting Foes.
8 Depart, ye Wicked; in my Wrongs
ye shall no more rejoice;
for God, I find, accepts my Tears,
and listens to my Voice.
9, 10 He hears, and grants my humble Pray'r,
and they that wish me Fall,
Shall blush and rage, to see that God
protects me from them all.
|First Line:||Thy dreadful anger, Lord, restrain|