1. From my Youth up, may Isr'el say,
They oft have me assail'd;
2. They oft, from Youth, my Ruin sought,
But have not quite prevail'd.
3. The Plowers long their Furrows plow'd;
And put my Back to Pain.
4. The Lord is righteous he hath cut
The Wicked's Cords in Twain.

5. Let all that Sion hate, with Shame,
And in Confusion, fly.
6. May they, as Grain, on Houses Tops,
But just spring up and die.
7. With which no Reaper fills his Hand,
Nor Arms that binds the Sheave,
8. No Passenger, God bless you, says;
We, you our Blessing, leave.