Psalm 30

My Verse shall in thy praises flow:
Lord, thou hast rais'd my head on high;
Nor suffered the proud Enemie
To triumph in my overthrow.

I cry'd aloud; thy Arme did save;
Thou drew'st me from the shades of Death,
Repealing my exiled breath,
When almost swallow'd by the Grave.

You Saints of his, oh sing his praise!
Present your Vowes unto the Lord;
His perfect Holinesse record,
Whose Wrath but for a moment stayes.

His quickning Favour life bestowes:
Teares may continue for a night;
But Joy springs with the Morning Light;
Long-lasting Joyes, soone-ending Woes.

In my Prosperitie I said,
My feet shall ever fixt abide:
I, by thy favour fortify'd,
Am like a stedfast Mountaine made.

But when thou hid'st thy cheerfull Face;
How infinite my Troubles grew!
My cries then with my griefe renew,
Which thus implor'd thy saving Grace:

What profit can by bloud afford,
When I shall to the Grave descend?
Can senselesse Dust thy Praise extend?
Can Death thy living Truth record?

To my Complaints attentive be;
Thy Mercie in my aid advance:
O perfect my Deliverance,
That have no other Hope but Thee!

Thou, Lord, hast made th'Afflicted glad;
My Sorrow into Dauncing turn'd:
The Sack-cloth torne wherein I mourn'd,
And me in Tyrian Purple clad:

That so my Glorie might proclame
Thy Favours in a joyfull Verse;
Uncessantly thy Praise rehearse,
And magnifie thy sacred Name,