Classic Poem

To thee from thy temple I lift up mine eyes,
And breathe from my heart-strings the passionate sighs,
O thou that with goodness and glory replete,
Hast fixt in the holiest of holies thy seat!

The looks of a servant his master revere,
The damsel her mistress with meekness and fear,
Thus elder and matron, and all our whole race
Attend at thy footstool for strength and for grace.

O Lord, let thine angel of comfort descend,
With blessed compassion our woes to befriend,
For in this dejection and wretched estate
They make us their object of scorn and of hate.

Our souls are disgusted and loaded with care,
Whilst hardly the taunts of the wealthy we bear,
And stand all abash'd at the spiteful disdain
We daily receive from the pompous and vain.