Words: Brady and Tate, A New Version of the Psalms of David
1 To thee, O Lord, my cries ascend, O haste to my relief; And with accustomed 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 barred.
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 they are tempted and reduced, like me, to sore distress.
6 When skulking in En-gedi'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 scattered ruins lie As thick as from the hewer's axe the severed 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.