Classic Poem

Lord, how my bosom foes increase,
How num'rous their allies;
The troublers of my peace
In multitudes arise!

For many a taunting wretch I grieve,
That scoff at God, and say,
'Tis hopeless to believe,
Nor is there fruit to pray.

But thou, Lord Jesus, art my fort
From every hostile dread;
My worship and support
Of this my drooping head.

When to the Lord my voice I sent
My hardships to recount,
A gracious ear he lent
From out his holy mount.

For due repose my couch I press'd,
And rose to pray'r again;
For God my slumbers bless'd,
My spirit to sustain.

Thro' him I will not be dismay'd,
Tho' thousand thousands rage;
And rank and file array'd
Domestic warfare wage.

Up, Lord, and as my foes rebel,
Let thy controuling might
Their fierce attacks repel,
And disannul their spite.

Salvation is from God to man,
Whom he delights to spare;
Our host from rear to van
His gen'ral blessing share.