Psalm 42 (Quemadmodum)

As the chafed hart which braieth
Seeking some refreshing brooke,
So my soul in panting plaieth,
Thirsting on my God to looke.
My soul thirsts indeede in mee
After ever-living thee;
Ah, when comes my blessed being,
Of thy face to have a seeing.

Day and night my teares out-flowing
Have been my ill feeding food,
With their daily questions throwing,
Where is now thy God soe good?
My hart melts remembring soe,
How in troupes I wont to goe:
Leading them, his praises singing,
Holy daunce to Gods house bringing.

Why art thou, my soule, soe sory,
And in me soe much dismaid?
Waite on God, for yet his glory
In my song shall be displaid.
When but with one looke of his
He shall me restore to blisse:
Ah, my soule, it self appalleth,
In such longing thoughts it falleth,

For my mynd on my God bideth,
Ev'n from Hermons dwelling lead,
From the groundes where Jordan slideth,
And from Myzars hilly head.
One deepe with noise of his fall,
Other deepes of woes doth call:
While my God, with wasting wonders,
On me wretch, his tempest thunders.

All thy floodes on me abounded,
Over me all thy waves went:
Yet thus still my hope is grounded,
That thy anger being spent,
I by day thy love shall tast,
I by night shall singing last,
Prayeng, praiers still bequeathing,
To my God that gave me breathing.

I will say, O Lord, my tower,
Why am I forgot by thee?
Why should griefe my hart devower
While the foe oppresseth me?
Those vile scoffs of naughty ones
Wound and rent me to the bones;
When foes aske, with foule deriding,
Where is now your God abiding?

Why art thou, my soule, soe sory,
And in me so much dismaid?
Waite on God, for yet his glory
In my songe shall be displaid.

To him my thancks shall be said,
Who is still my present aid:
And in fine my soul he raised,
God is my God, by me praised.