1 Me Lord, not in thy dreadful wrath, correct,
Nor let thy sore displeasure take effect.
2 Deep in my bones thy fatal arrows stand,
And much I'm wounded by thy heavy hand:
3 My anguish'd body feels thy deadly wrath,
And my whole system threatens me with death.
4 In all my guilt o'er-whelm'd, I quite despair;
Ah! load too, heavy for my soul to bear!
5 O fatal folly! rankle now again
My wounds, their stench more grievous than their pain.
6 I droop, I totter, with my misery,
And all the day with killing anguish sigh.
7 With foul, with loathsome ulcers blister'd o'er,
No part have I but festers with a sore.
8 Quite weak, quite feeble with my pains I'm grown,
And my afflicted heart makes piteous moan.
9 Thou know'st the secret wishes of my heart;
A witness to her bitter groans thou art:
10 Deeply me groans--my strength all from me flies,
And, lost in dreary darkness, stream my eyes.
11 My wonted friends, my kinsmen, stand aloof;
My filthy, fetid ulcers keep them off;
12 While to entrap my tortur'd soul, prepare
My cruel foes, and lay for me the snare.
13 But I, as dumb my tongue, as deaf my ear,
For grief was silent, nor wou'd seem to hear:
14 Thus like a wretch quite stupid, I became,
That cou'd not clear, when they aspers'd, my fame.
15 In thee, O Lord, my only hope I place;
My helpless soul do thou, benignant, raise;
16 Let not my foes with insolence be gay,
Nor proudly triumph, if I heedless stray.
17 Still am I ready all thy stripes to bear;
To me well-known thy chast'ning mercies are;
18 And well have I deserv'd--I own my sin,
And mourn the vile offender I have been.
19 But still my foes are in their numbers strong,
Daily encrease, and still add wrong to wrong;
20 Full hard they press me, and my life pursue,
And are my foes, 'cause to my God I'm true.
21 Forsake me not, O Lord; thy servant free;
22 Make haste to help me; I've no help but thee.