Classic Poem

Lord ! We have heard our fathers tell
The wonders wrought by Thee of old,
To them by their great grandsires told,
How by Thy Hand the heathen fell;

Of fruitful Canaan dispossess'd,
And Israel planted in their room,
They perish'd by a fearful doom,
While ours in growth and strength increas'd.

Not their own swords that pleasant land
Did conquer, and their foes eject;
Nor did their arms their lives protect:
It was Thy Arm and pow'rful Hand;

It was the splendour of Thy Face;
And by Thy favour they o'ercame:
My King, my God, O still the same,
Salvation send to Jacob's race.

For by Thy aid our enemies
Lay bleeding on the stained ground;
And in Thy Name we did confound
Who ever durst against us rise.

Our sword's unable to defend,
We will not trust in our weak bows;
Thou, Lord, hast sav'd us from our foes,
And brought them to a shameful end.

Part II.

For this with praises we adore,
And ever celebrate Thy Name:
But now Thou casts us off to shame,
Nor lead'st our armies as before.

Our faces from our foes revers'd,
A spoil to such as hunt for blood;
Thou giv'st us up as sheep for food,
Among th' uncircumcis'd dispers'd.

For nought Thou dost Thy people sell,
Nor art enriched by their price;
Our neighbours in our fall rejoice,
A scorn to all that near us dwell.

A by-word to the heathen grown,
Who shake their heads in our disgrace;
My shame is still before my face;
My eyes to earth with blushes thrown.

Sprung from the bold blasphemer's taunts,
And proud avenger's threat'ning look,
Yet, Lord, we have not Thee forsook,
Nor falsified Thy covenants.

Part III.

Our hearts have not their faith dissolv'd,
Our steps the path prescribed keep;
Though Thou hast crush'd us in the deep,
And with the shades of death involv'd.

For should we from the Lord depart,
Or to strange gods our hearts uprear;
O would not this to Him appear,
Who knows the secrets of our heart?

Yet for Thy sake are daily slain,
For slaughter mark'd like butcher'd sheep;
Awake, O Lord, why dost Thou sleep?
Rise, nor for ever us disdain.

O to Thy own at length return:
Why dost Thou hide Thy cheerful Face?
Withdrawing Thy accustom'd grace
From such as in affliction mourn?

For lo! our souls are wrapt in dust;
Our bellies to the centre cleave:
O for Thy mercies' sake receive
And succour those who in Thee trust.