Psalm LVII

GREAT God, on whom I have reli'd,
Whose Mercy is my stay;
Under Thy Wings, or let me hide,
Or on them flie away!
Or hide, or flie, until the Storm
Which threatens me is past;
Thou all things for me dost perform,
In Thee my hope is plac'd.

To God I'll cry, who shall descend
From Heav'n, ith' Fight to close,
And while his Love does me defend
His Truth shall slay my Foes.
With Lions, Lord, my Soul lies down,
shut up within their Den;
Lions so fierce were never known,
Cruel, and bloody Men.

Whose Tongues are Swords, and Eyes all Fire,
With gore and slaughter Red;
And who against me all conspire,
To look, or speak me Dead.
Yet set Thy Glory 'above the Skies,
O're th' Earth exalted be;
For tho so high I cannot rise,
Thou mayst stoop down to me

Thou didst so, for as I lookt round,
Pensive and full of care;
My prostrate Enemies strew'd the Ground,
Each tane in his own Snare.
Fixt is my Heart to sing Thy Praise,
Tis fixt, and I'll rejoyce;
Awake my Harp, and with Thee raise,
To Heav'n my tuneful Voice!

I will awake too, and my Song
To th' Nations shall rehearse
Mercies, whose Praise to Heav'n belong,
Worthy an Angels Verse.
Lord, set Thy Glory 'above the Skies,
O're the Earth exalted be!
Lo, how thy Son does thither rise,
Lift from the Grave by Thee!