John Milton — PSAL. LXXXVIII

1          LORD God that dost me save and keep,          All day to thee I cry;          And all night long, before thee weep         Before thee prostrate lie. 2          Into thy presence let my praier          With sighs devout ascend          And to my cries, that ceaseless are,          Thine ear with favour bend. 3          For cloy'd with woes and trouble store          Surcharg'd my Soul doth lie,          My life at death's uncherful dore          Unto the grave draws nigh. 4          Reck'n'd I am with them that pass          Down to the dismal pit          I am a *man, but weak alas * Heb. A man without manly          And for that name unfit. strength. 5          From life discharg'd and parted quite          Among the dead to sleep         And like the slain in bloody fight          That in the grave lie deep.         Whom thou rememberest no more,         Dost never more regard,         Them from thy hand deliver'd o're         Deaths hideous house hath barr'd. 6         Thou in the lowest pit profound'         Hast set me all forlorn,          Where thickest darkness hovers round,         In horrid deeps to mourn. 7          Thy wrath from which no shelter saves          Full sore doth press on me;         *Thou break'st upon me all thy waves, *The Heb.         *And all thy waves break me         bears both. 8          Thou dost my friends from me estrange,          And mak'st me odious,          Me to them odious, for they change,         And I here pent up thus. 9          Through sorrow, and affliction great          Mine eye grows dim and dead,         Lord all the day I thee entreat,         My hands to thee I spread. 10         Wilt thou do wonders on the dead,          Shall the deceas'd arise         And praise thee from their loathsom bed          With pale and hollow eyes? 11          Shall they thy loving kindness tell         On whom the grave hath hold,          Or they who in perdition dwell          Thy faithfulness unfold? 12         In darkness can thy mighty hand         Or wondrous acts be known,         Thy justice in the gloomy land         Of dark oblivion? 13          But I to thee O Lord do cry          E're yet my life be spent,          And up to thee my praier doth hie          Each morn, and thee prevent. 14          Why wilt thou Lord my soul forsake,          And hide thy face from me, 15          That am already bruis'd, and *shake *Heb. Prae Concussione.          With terror sent from thee;          Bruz'd, and afflicted and so low          As ready to expire,          While I thy terrors undergo         Astonish'd with thine ire. 16         Thy fierce wrath over me doth flow          Thy threatnings cut me through. 17          All day they round about me go,          Like waves they me persue. 18         Lover and friend thou hast remov'd          And sever'd from me far.         They fly me now whom I have lov'd,         And as in darkness are.         Finis.


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