1 To thee, O Lord, my cries ascend,
O haste to my relief;
And with accustom'd pity hear
the accents of my grief.
2 Instead of off'rings, let my pray'r
like morning incense rise;
My lifted hands supply the place
of ev'ning sacrifice.
3 From hasty language curb my tongue,
and let a constant guard
Still keep the portal of my lips,
With wary silence barr'd.
4 From wicked men's designs and deeds
my heart and hands restrain;
Nor let me in the booty share
of their unrighteous gain.
5 Let upright men reprove my faults,
and I shall think them kind;
Like balm that heals a wounded head,
I their reproof shall find;
And in return, my fervent pray'r
I shall for them address,
When thy are tempted and reduc'd,
Like me, to sore distress.
6 When skulking in Engedi's rock,
I to their chiefs appeal,
If one reproachful word I spoke,
when I had pow'r to kill.
7 Yet us they persecute to death;
our scatter'd ruins lie,
As thick as from the hewer's axe
the sever'd splinters fly.
8 But, Lord, to thee I still direct
my supplicating eyes,
O leave not destitute my soul,
whose trust on thee relies.
9 Do thou preserve me from the snares
that wicked hands have laid;
Let them in their own nets be caught,
while my escape is made.
Source: The Whole Book of Psalms: in metre; with hymns suited to the feasts and fasts of the church, and other occasions of public worship #CXLI
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