Psalm 92 (Bonum est confiteri)

O lovely thing,
To sing and praises frame,
To thee, O Lord, and thy high name.
With early spring
Thy bounty to display,
Thy truth when night hath vanquisht day
Yea soe to sing,
That ten string'd instrument
With lute, and harp, and voice consent.

For, Lord, my mind
Thy works with wonder fill;
Thy doings are my comfort still.
What witt can find
How bravely thou hast wrought?
Or deeply sound thy shallow'st thought?
The foole is blind,
And blindly doth not know,
How like the grasse the wicked grow.

The wicked grow
Like fraile, though flowry grasse:
And falne to wrack past help doe passe.
But thou not soe,
But high thou still dost stay:
And loe thy haters fall away.
Thy haters loe
Decay and perish all;
All wicked hands to mine fall.

Fresh oiled I
Will lively lift my home,
And match the matchlesse unicorne:
Mine eye shall spy
My spies in spightfull case:
Mine eare shall heare my foes disgrace.
Like cedar high,
And like date-bearing tree,
For greene and growth the just shall be.

Where God doth dwell
Shall be his spreading place:
God's courts shall his faire bowes embrace.
Even then shall swell
His blossoms fatt and faire,
When aged rinde the stock shall beare.
And I shall tell
How God my rock is just,
So just, with him is nought unjust.