Psalm 65 (Te decet hymnus)

Sion it is where thou art praised,
Sion, O God, where vowes they pay thee:
There all mens praiers to thee raised
Returne possest of what they pray thee.
There thou my sinns prevailing to my shame
Dost turne to smoake of sacrificing flame.

O, he of blisse is not deceived,
Whom chosen thou unto thee takest:
And whom into thy court receaved,
Thou of thy checkrole number makest.
The dainty viands of thy sacred store
Shall feede hym so he shall not hunger more.

From thence it is, thy threatning thunder,
(Lest we by wrong should be disgraced),
Doth strike our foes with feare and wonder:
O thou on whom their hopes are placed,
Whom either earth dost stedfastly sustayn,
Or cradle rockes the restlesse wavy playn.

Thy vertue staies the mighty mountaynes,
Girded with pow'r, with strength abounding:
The roaring damm of watry fountaines
Thy beck doth make surcease her sounding.
When stormy uproares tosse the peoples brayn,
That civill sea to calme thou bringst agayn.

Where earth doth end with endless ending,
All such as dwell, thy signes affright them:
And in thy praise their voices spending,
Both houses of the sun delight them;
Both whence he comes, when early he awakes,
And where he goes, when ev'ning rest he takes.

Thy eie from heav'n this land beholdeth,
Such fruitful! dewes down on it rayning.
That storehowse-like her lap enfoldeth
Assured hope of plowmans gayning,
Thy flowing streames her drought doth temper so,
That buried seed through yielding grave doth grow.

Drunk is each ridge of thy cup drincking,
Each clodd relenteth at thy dressing:
Thy cloud-borne waters inly sincking,
Faire spring sproutes foorth, blest with thy blessing.
The fertile yeare is with thy bounty crown'd;
And where thou go'st, thy goings fatt the ground.

Plenty bedewes the desert places:
A hedge of mirth the hills encloseth:
The fieldes with flockes have hid their faces:
A robe of corn the vallies clotheth.
Desertes, and hills, and feilds, and valleys all,
Rejoyce, shout, sing, and on thy name doe call.