Classic Poem

Lord, rebuke me not, nor hasten
In thine ire my day of doom;
Nor in hot resentment chasten
Him whom pain and grief consume.

For thy poignant arrows thicken,
And come piercing on my pores;
By thine angel am I stricken
With innumerable sores.

For my sin and thy displeasure
All my flesh with anguish groans,
And tormented out of measure,
There's no quiet in my bones.

For my wickedness excessive,
Now come down upon my head,
Is a burden too oppressive
For a sinner in his bed.

For my running wounds are fetid,
And the filth inhances pain,
Thro' my folies oft regretted,
And as often play'd again.

Bent and broke with toilsome sorrow
I am in such evil plight;
From each evening to the morrow
I go mourning day and night.

For my loins are all infected
With a noxious plague diseas'd,
Not a single part protected
Which the poison has not seiz'd.

Weak with this thy visitation,
And inflamed in every part,
I have roar'd in rank vexation,
And disquietude of heart.

Lord, thou knowest all the merit,
And extent of my appeal;
And the groanings of my spirit
I cannot from Thee conceal.

Strength is gone, and throbbing pulses
Shake my heart strings with dismay,
And the pain my sight convulses
That I cannot bear the day.

There is none to give assistance,
Friends and neighbours stand and look;
And my kinsmen keep their distance,
Nor can my misfortunes brook.

This was deem'd a lucky season
For my foes to lay their snares;
And they went about with treason
Breaking bounds and sowing tares.

As for me, with inattention
I was deaf to what they said,
Like the dumb, by whom no mention
Of his miseries is made.

I became as one astonish'd
Who to nothing gives his heed;
And whose foes are not admonish'd
From their purpose to recede.

For in Thee, O Lord, confiding
I with meekness kiss the rod;
Thou shalt plead for my back-sliding,
O my Saviour, O my God.

I have made my soul's petition
That my foes no more should swell,
For well-pleas'd with my condition,
They exulted when I fell.

And, in truth, I am surrounded
As the plagues come on apace,
And mine aching sight is wounded
While they stare me in the face.

For with penitent confession
I my worship will begin;
And acknowledge my transgression,
And be sorry for my sin.

But mine enemies surviving
Their own malice are in pow'r,
Hatred from no cause deriving,
Grow more num'rous every hour.

Those increase my persecution
Who for good the worst return,
To dismay my resolution
As with zeal for God I burn.

Let me, Lord, at this incursion
Of my foes thy succour prove;
Nor in anger or aversion
From thy supplicant remove.

O thou God of all perfection,
As my plaintive psalm I make,
From all terror and dejection
Speed me for thy mercy's sake.