Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PSALM 88, by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE



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PSALM 88, by            
First Line: Oh lord, upon whose will dependeth my welfare
Last Line: Are forced, for my greater grief, from me their face to hide.


Oh Lord, upon whose will dependeth my welfare,
To call upon Thy holy name since day nor night I spare,
Grant that the just request of this repentant mind
So pierce Thine ears that in Thy sight some favor it may find.
My soul is fraughted full with grief of follies past;
My restless body doth consume and death approacheth fast;
Like them whose fatal thread thy hand hath cut in twain,
Of whom there is no further bruit, which in their graves remain.
Oh Lord, Thou hast cast me headlong to please my foe,
Into a pit all bottomless, whereas I plain my woe.
The burden of Thy wrath it doth me sore oppress,
And sundry storms Thou hast me sent of terror and distress.
The faithful friends are fled and banished from my sight,
And such as I have held full dear have set my friendship light.
My durance doth persuade of freedom such despair
That, by the tears that bain my breast, mine eyesight doth appair.
Yet did I never cease Thine aid for to desire,
With humble heart and stretched hands for to appease Thy ire.
Wherefore dost Thou forbear, in the defense of Thine,
To show such tokens of Thy power, in sight of Adam's line,
Whereby each feeble heart with faith might so be fed
That in the mouth of Thy elect Thy mercies might be spread?
The flesh that feedeth worms can not Thy love declare,
Nor such set forth Thy faith as dwell in the land of despair.
In blind endured hearts, light of Thy lively name
Cannot appear, as cannot judge the brightness of the same.
Nor blasted may Thy name be by the mouth of those
Whom death hath shut in silence, so as they may not disclose.
The lively voice of them that in Thy word delight
Must be the trump that must resound the glory of Thy might.
Wherefore I shall not cease, in chief of my distress,
To call on Thee till that the sleep my wearied limbs oppress.
And in the morning eke, when that the sleep is fled,
With floods of salt repentant tears to wash my restless bed.
Within this careful mind, burd'ned with care and grief,
Why dost Thou not appear, Oh Lord, that shouldest be his relief?
My wretched state behold, whom death shall straight assail;
Of one from youth afflicted still, that never did but wail.
The dread, lo, of Thine ire hath trod me under feet;
The scourges of Thine angry hand hath made death seem full sweet.
Like to the roaring waves the sunken ship surround,
Great heaps of care did swallow me and I no succor found.
For they whom no mischance could from my love divide
Are forced, for my greater grief, from me their face to hide.





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