1 Preserve me, Lord--on thy blest pow'r relies
My fervent soul, and to thy goodness flies.
Yet not to thee my faithful works extend;
Weak tho' I am, an aiding hand I'll lend
To those dear saints, in virtue that excel,
Their hope, their joy, their pride, with thee to dwell.
4 But hapless they, who not in thee will trust,
And think their hopes in fancied gods are just!
Their bloody sacrifices I'll disdain,
Nor shall their impious names my lips profane.
5 No; rather in thy pow'r secure I'll stand;
Receive my lot, my portion, from thy hand:
6 O blessed lot! O heavenly retreat!
In fields of fairest flow'rs is fix'd my seat;
Plac'd as I am therein by hands divine,
A scene of endless happiness is mine.
7 Therefore my soul with gratitude o'erflows;
By thee inspir'd, with heav'nly ardour glows;
8 I feel the present God, that guards my steps;
My high-enraptur'd heart within me leaps;
My infirm body trembles with the joy,
And my whole system proves the ecstasy.
10 For from the gloomy horrors of the grave,
Thy holy, thy anointed one, thou'lt save;
From dreary darkness thou his soul wilt free,
Nor shall thy chosen vile corruption see:
11 The blissful paths of life thou'lt to him shew,
Where in thy presence joys for ever flow;
Where in full streams immortal pleasures roll,
From thy right-hand, to fill the ravish'd soul.