1 Up from my Youth, may Isr'el say,
Have I been nurs'd in Tears;
My Griefs were constant as the Day,
And tedious as the Years.
2 Up from my Youth I bore the Rage
Of all the Sons of Strife;
Oft they assail'd my riper Age,
But not destroy'd my Life.
3 Their cruel Plow had torn my Flesh
With Furrows long and deep,
Hourly they vex'd my Wounds afresh,
Nor let my Sorrows sleep.
4 The Lord grew angry on his Throne,
And, with impartial Eye,
Measur'd the Mischiefs they had done,
Then let his Arrows fly.
5 How was their Insolence surpris'd
To hear his Thunders roll!
And all the Foes of Sion seiz'd
With Horror to the Soul.
6 Thus shall the Men that hate the Saints
Be blasted from the Sky;
Their Glory fades, their Courage faints
And all their Projects die.
7 [What though they flourish tall and fair,
They have no Root beneath;
Their Growth shall perish in Despair,
And lie despis'd in Death.]
9 [So Corn that on the House-top stands,
No Hope of Harvest gives;
The Reaper ne'er shall fill his Hands,
Nor Binder fold the Sheaves.
9 It springs and withers on the Place;
No Traveller bestows
A word of Blessing on the Grass,
Nor minds it as he goes.]
|First Line:||Up from my Youth, may Isr'el say|
|Topic:||Persecutors: punished; Saints: tried and preserved|