Classic Poem

My heart doth in the Lord rejoice;
My horn's exalted high:
My mouth's enlarg'd above my foes;
For in my help I joy.

There is none holy as the Lord
For none can equal thee;
Nor any rock with succour stor'd,
Like to our God can be.

Let no more proud presumptuous chat,
From out your mouth proceed;
The Lord's a God of knowledge great,
By him are actions weigh'd.

The boasted bows of mighty men
Are broke in sherds at length:
But, lo! the stumbling train
Are girt about with strength.

The full have hir'd themselves for corn;
The hungry cease to moan:
The barren woman seven hath born;
The fertile feeble grown.

God kills and quickens these that die;
Brings to the grave, and fro:
Makes poor and rich; degrades the high,
And elevates the low.

From out the dust the poor he rears,
From dung the beggar brings,
To sit with peers, and hold as heirs,
The pompous throne of kings:

For, to the Lord of lords alone
Earth's pillars appertain;
He sets the lower world thereon,
The sov'reign o'er the swain.

Of saints he'll keep the footsteps ev'n,
But lay proud foes in jail
Of silent darkness; for 'gainst Heav'n,
By strength shall none prevail.

The adversaries of the Lord
Shall broken be to shreds:
He out of Heav'n the wrath they stor'd,
Shall thunder on their heads.

He'll justly judge the earth all o'er,
His King he'll fortify;
And his Anointed's horn and pow'r,
Men shall exalted see.