Version of Paraphrase of the Psalm, A - Psalm 127


A Race by God unblest who rear,
A fruitless toil sustain;
If God to shield the Town forbear,
The Watchman wakes in vain.


Why rise Ye early, late take rest,
And eat the bread of care?
The balm of sleep, his gift confest,
His Children only share.


Know too thy Sons, that round the stand,
A gift by Him prepar'd;
Nor arrows in the Giant's hand
Can yield so sure a guard.


Blest, who his quiver stores with These:
When hostile troops are near,
His gate the storm approaching sees,
Yet sees without a fear.
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