Classic Poem

Psal. 9.

To the tune of that knowen song, beginning;

Preserue vs Lord.

Thee & thy wondrous deeds, O God
With all my soule I sound abroad:
My ioy, my triumph is in thee,
Of thy drad name my song shal be,

O highest God: since put to flight,
And fall'n and vanisht at thy sight,
Are all my foes; for thou hast past
Iust sentence on my cause at last:

And sitting on thy throne aboue,
A rightful Iudge thy selfe do'st proue:
The troupes profane thy checkes haue stroid
And made their name for euer void.

Where's now, my foes, your threatned wrack?
So well you did our citties sack,
And bring to dust; whiles that ye say,
Their name shall dy as well as they.

Lo, in eternall state God sits,
And his hy throne to iustice fits:
Whose righteous hand the world shall weeld
And to al folk iust doom shal yeeld.

The poore from hy find his reliefe,
The poore in needfull times of griefe:
Who knowes thee Lord, to thee shalt cleaue,
That neuer do'st thy clients leaue.

Oh! sing the God that doth abide,
On Sion mount; and blazon wide
His worthy deeds. For, he pursues
The guiltlesse bloud with vengeance due:

He minds their case; nor can passe o're
Sad clamours of the wronged poore.
Oh! mercy Lord; thou that do'st saue
My soule from gates of death & graue:

Oh! see the wrong my foes haue done;
That I thy praise, to all that gone,
Through daughter Sions beautious gate,
With thankfull songs may loud relate;

And may reioice in thy safe ayd.
Behold: the Gentiles, whiles they made
A deadly pit my soule to drowne,
Into their pit are sunken downe;

In that close snare they hid for mee,
Lo their owne feet entangled bee.
By this iust doom the Lord is known,
That th'ill are punished with their own.

Down shall the wicked backward fall
To deepest hell, and nations all
That God forget; nor shall the poore
Forgotten be for euermore.

The constant hope of soules opprest
Shall not ay dy. Rise from thy rest,
Oh! Lord, let not men base and rude
Preuaile: iudge thou the multitude.

Of Lawelesse pagans: strike pale fear
Into those breasts late stubborn were:
And let the Gentiles feele and find,
They been but men of mortall kind.