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PSALM 42. (Book 42)
The Psalmist (it seemeth David vnder Sauls persecution) bewaileth with much passion his constrained absence from Gods presence in his Ark and Tabernacle: and after a sharp combate of soule with mani deiecting afflictions, in fine getteth above them by the strength of his faith and hope in God.
AS chased Hart, with drouth enraged first,
Then ioid with hope, towărd watri streams dooth bray:
So Lord, my soule, my panting soule dooth thirst,
At lifes high spring hir restles love to stay.
AH life of lifes! when shall that ioying sight
Of presence thyn reioice my ioyles ey?
Whom now salt teares are food to day and night,
"While chasing foes, Where's now thy God? stil cry.
SWEET-sour revieu my hart through eys distils,
How earst high ioys midst marching troop I broacht:
And sacred House, whom beauteŏus presence fils,
With songs and praise in festivĕst guise approacht.
WHY then, ô why, my sad deiected mynd,
Should troubled thoughts thee restles now torment?
Ah thankful wait: stil gracious Lord shalt fynd,
In bands of woes release who al-times sent.
YET Lord my soule behold stil dampt with grief:
While Iordans reeds, while Hermons rocs she hants;
While Iuri mounts affoord their poor relief:
Remembrance thyn where melting hart redants.
SEE gulf of woes, nue gulf stil duely cals:
Thy thunders roar; thy fires com streaming doun:
And raging storm, from cloudi spouts which fals
With shouring fluds my pining soule dooth droun.
YET gracious Lord stil succŏring hand dooth reach.
His face serene returned ioy shal bring:
And gladsom day shal thankful euĕning teach,
With praiseful hymn th'alglorious name to sing.
MENE while to God thy chased life betake;
And doleful tune exiled wretch renue:
My God, my strength; why doost thou me forsake?
Why moorning soule dooth murdrous foe persue?
O THOW who sole sustein'st my wear̆ied life,
My wear̆ied life, whom powĕr of right bereves;
Yet iudge that cry, mongst braiding foes so rife,
"Where's now thy God? My bones it swoord-like cleves.
BVT why, ô why, my sad deiected mynd,
Should troubled thoughts thee restles still torment?
Com grateful hope. My gracious God, I fynd
In throng of woes still swift relief hath sent.