Classic Poem

PSALM XXVIII.

T O thee, O Lord, I raise my cries;
My servent prayer in mercy hear;
For ruin waits my trembling soul,
If thou refuse a gracious ear.

When suppliant tow'rd thy holy hill,
I list my mournful hands to pray,
Afford thy grace, nor drive me still,
With impious hypocrites away,

To sons of falsehood, that despise
The works and wonders of thy reign,
Thy vengeance gives the due reward,
And finks their souls to endless pain,

But, ever blessed be the Lord,
Whose mercy hears my mournful voice,
My heart, that trusted in his word,
In his salvation shall rejoice,

Let every saint, in sore distress,
By faith approach his Saviour God;
Then grant, O Lord, thy pardoning grace,
And feed thy church with heavenly food.