Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PSALM 147, by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE



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PSALM 147, by            
First Line: Sing to the lord, for what can better be
Last Line: For to his light, what other is not blynde.


Sing to the lord, for what can better be
then of our God, that wee the honnor singe?
with seemelie pleasure, what can more agree
then praisefull voice, and touch of tuned string?
for loe the lord, againe to forme doth bringe:
Jerusalems longe ruinated walls,
and Jacobs howse, which all the Earth did see
dispersed earst, to union now recalls.
And now by him theire broken hartes made sound:
And now by him theire bleeding wounds are bound.

For what could not, whoe can the number tell
of Starrs, the Torches of his heavnly hall:
And tell so redilie, he knoweth well,
how everie starr by proper name to call.
What greate to him? whose greatnes doth not fall
within precincts? whose power, no lymitts staie?
Whose knowledges, all number so excell
not numbring number can theire number laie:
Easie to him, to lifte the lowelie juste:
Easie to downe prowde wicked to the Duste.

O then Jehova's cawsefull honnour singe.
his whome oure God, wee by his goodnes finde:
O make harmonious mixe of voice, and stringe
to him by whome the Skies, with cloudes are lyn'd.
by whome the rayne from cloudes to dropp assign'd:
supples the Clodds of sommer scorched fields
fresheth the Mountaines, with such needefull spring:
fuell of life to maintaine Cattell yeelds.
From whome younge Ravens, Careles oulde forsake
Croaking to him, of allmes, theire foode doe take.

The statelie shape, the force of bravest steede
is farr too weake, to worke in him delight
No more in him can anie pleasure breede,
in flieng footman, foote of nimblest flight.
Naie which is more his fearers in his sight
Can well of nothing but his bountie brave;
which never failing, never let them neede:
whoe fixte theire hopes upon his mercies have.
O then Jerusalem, Jehova praise
with honnour due, thy God, O Sion raise.

His strength it is, thy Gates doth surelie barr:
his grace in thee, thy children multiplies:
by him thy borders lie secure from Warr:
and finest flower, thy hunger sattisfies.
Nor meanes he needes, for faste his pleasure flies:
borne by his word, when ought him liste to bidd.
Snows woollie lockes, by him wide scattred are,
and hoarie plagues, with frost as Ashes hidd.
Grosse Icie gobbetts, from his hand he flings:
And blowes a could too stronge for strongest things.

He bidds againe, and Ice in water flowes
as water earste, in Ice Congealed laie:
Abrode the Southerne winde, his melter goes,
the streames relenting, take theire woonted waie.
O much is this, but more I come to saie:
The wordes of life he hath to Jacob towld:
Taught Israel, whoe by his teaching knowes,
what lawes in life, what rules he wills to howld.
No nation else, hath found him haulfe so kinde
for to his light, what other is not blynde.





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