Psalm 38

LOrd, chide not when thou wroth shalt be,
Nor in thy rage, my sinn chastise;
For, deep thy shafts do stick in me,
And, strict, thy hand vpon me lies.
Paines in my flesh, thy frownes have bredd;
My faults have rob'd my bones of rest:
My flouds of Sinn, have drown'd my head,
And by their waight I am opprest.

My wounds corrupt, & foule they growe;
My Crimes have causd that thus I fare:
With sorrowes, I am pressed lowe;
And, all day long, my mournings are.
My Raines are grip'd, & sore deseas'd;
Throughout my body I am sore:
A wastinge-greef on me hath ceas'd;
And paind at hart, aloud I roare.

Oh Lord! thou know'st what things I want;
My mournings are not hidd from thee:
My strength decayes, my hart doth pant,
Mine eye-sight also faileth me.
My friends & kindred, shunn my greef;
My lovers, hide themselves away:
And, they who seek to take my life,
Close-engines, to ensnare me, lay.

Yea, they who for my harme awaite,
Speake words, that full of mischeef are:
Yet, how, al day they muze deceit,
I (hearing) will not seeme to hear.
Nay, I have stood, as mute, as he
Whose tongue is partcht, whose throte is dry,
Whose eares depriv'd of hearing be;
And, in whose mouth is no replie.

For, I oh Lord, on thee relie,
And, answere I expect from thee:
Oh! therfor, now attend my crie,
Lest els my foes insult on me.
For, if my foote but slip aside,
They, in my fall, them selves delight;
My feet (alas) are prone to slide,
And, still, my greefs are in my sight.

Beholde, for my offence I greeve;
And, my transgressions I bewaile:
Yet, still, my foes encrease & live;
Yea, still, my causles-foes, prevaile.
Moreover, they, who render ill
For doeng well; have mee with stood,
And, borne me hate for my good-will,
Because, I love the thing that's good.

Lord, go not far, therfore, from hence;
From me, my God! depart not farr:
But, make thou speed in my defence;
Because, from thee, my succours are.