Psalm 65

IN Syon, Lord, thine honor lies;
There, vowes to thee are brought:
Ev'n there, thou answer'st all mens cries,
And, of all Flesh art sought.
Though many sinns do me oppresse,
From them thou purgest mee;
For, thou thy Chosen-one dost blesse,
And bringst him near to thee.

Within thy courts & holie-place,
His dwelling he doth gaine;
Ev'n there, where wee shall (of thy grace)
Our wished fill obtaine.
Thou in thy Iustice dreadfull art,
Yet, in thy grace wee stand;
And thou the hope of all men art,
That live on sea, or land.

Girt round with powre, thy Vigor laies,
A ground-work for the hills:
The noise of seas & Flouds it staies,
The peoples rage it stills.
Thy signes, remotest Clymates feare;
Thee, daye & night they praise;
Their Lands to visite, thou hast care;
And, rich encrease it paies.

To water all their furrowes there,
Thy River overflowes:
To feed them, corne thou dost prepare;
And, blessest that which growes.
Thou Crown'st the year with plentiousnes,
And, fat thy paths are made:
It dropps vpon the wildernes
And makes the mountaines glad.

Faire flocks, their fruitfull meads adorne;
Their vallies freshlie springe,
And, are so filld with cropps of Corne;
That they do laugh & sing.