Psalm 21

LOrd, in thy strength, how joies the king?
And, of thine aide, how glad is he?
His harts desires, in ev'rie thing,
Have bene bestow'd on him, by thee Selah.
With blessings, thou didst him prevent,
With purest gold, thou cowud'st his head,
To ask for life, was his intent;
And, he of endles life, hath sped.

Through thy defence, he famous growes,
And, is to high preferment reard;
On him, thy blisse-evernal flowes,
Thy gratious lookes his hart have chear'd.
Through thy meer love, the king shal stand
Still firme, if he on thee tepose.
And, Lord, thy hand (ev'n thy right-hand)
Shall serch, & finde out all thy foes.

As ovens, hot with flames, will do,
So, thou shalt scorch them in thyne yre:
And, in thy wrath consume them so,
As if they burned in the fire.
Yea, thou shalt from the race of man,
Root out their fruite, & pluck their seed;
Because, to wrong thee, they begann,
Although they could not act the deed.

Thou shalt expose them (as it were)
A Marke, within thy shooting-place;
Thy stringed shafts thou shalt prepare
And, stick thine Arrowes in their face.
Thus, be thou still exalted, Lord,
By thine owne powre, thy trophies raise:
And then, with joye wee will record
Thy Matchles might, in songs of praise.