Classic Poem

The glory to the Lord I yield,
Whose hands new strength impart,
To brave the ensanguin'd field,
And top the warrior's art.

My hope, my Saviour, and my helm,
My castle and my fort,
By whom my subject realm
Themselves in peace comport

Lord, what is man, that thou should leave
For his concerns thy rest,
A sinful son of Eve
So cherish'd and so blest?

Man is a thing of little worth,
Thro' folly and misdeeds,
Resembling from his birth
The shadow, that recedes.

Bow down the heav'ns, O Lord, in pray'r
As I thy name invoke
Upon the mountains bear,
And incense they shall smoke.

Cast forth thy lightnings, and disperse
Ungodliness and gloom,
Thine arrows fiery fierce
Shall Satan's works consume.

O send and save me with that hand
Which all attempt controuls,
From adverse floods that land
The foreigners in shoals.

From every loud vain-glorious fool,
With tongue by truth unaw'd,
Whose right hand is a tool
Of violence and fraud.

O Lord, I will an anthem chuse
Of novelty divine,
And with thy holy muse
The ten-string'd bass shall join.

The royal arms have peace thro' thee,
By victory restor'd;
And David now is free
From hostile fire and sword.

Save me from tongues of foreign stile,
And of thy grace bereft,
Whose right hand is of guile,
A hand of blood and theft.

So that our sons like plants may grow,
Our polish'd daughters shine
Like cherubs in a row,
Carv'd in the holy shrine.

So that our garners be profuse
With much and various stores,
And that our sheep produce
Ten thousand at our doors.

So that our oxen may be strong,
As toil disease defeats;
That murmurs, rapes and wrong
No more infest our streets.

Blest is the people which have got
Such treasure in their coasts;
Yea, blessed is their lot
Who serve the Lord of hosts.