1 To thee, O LORD, my Cries ascend;
Oh, hasten thou to my Relief,
And with accustom'd Pity hear
The mournful Accents of my Grief;
And when I lift my Voice to thee,
Do thou vouchsafe to comfort me.

2 Instead of Off'rings, let my Pray'r
To Heav'n, like Morning-Incense rise;
And let my lifted Hands supply
The Place of Ev'ning Sacrifice.
Let Prudence be my constant Guard,
My Lips with wary Silence barr'd.

3 From wicked Men's Designs and Deeds,
Do thou my Heart and Hands restrain;
Nor let me in the Booty share
Of their most base unrighteous Gain;
Lest I, like them, should go astray,
And leave thy pure and perfect Way.

4 Let upright Men reprove my Faults,
And I shall still believe them kind;
Like Balm that heals a wounded Head,
Their Admonitions I shall find;
When they're reduc'd to like Distress,
My Pray'r for them I will address.

5 When skulking in Engedi's Rock,
I to their haughty Chiefs appeal;
If one reproachful Word I spoke,
Although I had Pow'r to kill;
And yet our scatter'd Ruins lie,
Like Chips that from the Axes fly.

6 But gracious LORD, to thee I will
Direct my supplicating Eyes;
O! leave not destitute my Soul,
Whose Trust on thee alone relies.
Let them in Snares entrapped be,
Which their own Hands design'd for me.