Psalm 139 (Domine, probasti)

O lord in me there lieth nought,
But to thy search revealed lies:
For when I sitt
Thou markest it:
No lesse thou notest when I rise:
Yea closest closett of my thought
Hath open windowes to thine eyes.

Thou walkest with me when I walk,
When to my bed for rest I go,
I find thee there,
And ev'ry where:
Not yongest thought in me doth grow,
No not one word I cast to talk,
But yet unutt'red thou dost know.

If forth I march, thou goest before,
If back I torne, thou com'st behind:
Soe forth nor back
Thy guard I lack,
Nay on me too thy hand I find.
Well I thy wisdom may adore,
But never reach with earthy mind.

To shun thy notice, leave thine eye,
O whither might I take my way?
To starry spheare?
Thy throne is there.
To dead mens undelightsome stay?
There is thy walk, and there to lye
Unknown, in vain I should assay.

O Sun, whome light nor flight can match,
Suppose thy lightfull, flightfull wings
Thou lend to me
And I could flee
As farr as thee the ev'ning brings:
Ev'n led to West he would me catch,
Nor should I lurk with western things.

Doe thou thy best, O secret night,
In sable vaile to cover me:
Thy sable vaile
Shall vainly faile:
With day unmask'd my night shall be,
For night is day, and darkness light,
O father of all lights to thee.

Each inmost peece in me is thine,
While yet I in my mother dwelt,
All that me clad
From thee I had.
Thou in my frame hast strangly dealt:
Needes in my praise thy workes must shine,
So inly them my thoughts have felt.

Thou, how my back was beam-wise laid,
And raftring of my ribbs dost know:
Know'st ev'ry point
Of bone and joynt,
How to this whole these partes did grow,
In brave embrod'ry faire arraid,
Though wrought in shop both dark and low.

Nay, fashionless, ere forme I tooke,
Thy all and more beholding eye
My shapelesse shape
Could not escape:
All these tymes fram'd successively,
Ere one had being, in the booke
Of thy foresight enrol'd did ly.

My God, how I these studies prize,
That doe thy hidden workings show!
Whose summe is such,
Noe summe soe much:
Nay summ'd as sand they endlesse grow,
I lye to sleepe, from sleepe I rise,
Yet still in thought with thee I goe.

My God, if thou but one wouldst kill,
Then straight would leave my further chase.
This cursed brood
Inur'd to blood:
Whose gracelesse tauntes at thy disgrace
Have aimed oft: and hating still
Would with proud lies thy truth outface.

Hate not I them who thee doe hate?
Thyne, Lord, I will the censure be.
Detest I not
The canckred knott
Whom I against thee banded see?
O Lord, thou know'st in highest rate
I hate them all as foes to me.

Search me, my God, and prove my hart,
Examyne me, and try my thought,
And mark in me
If ought there be
That hath with cause their anger wrought.
If not (as not) my lives each part,
Lord safely guide from danger brought.