A paraphrase upon the divine poems. By George Sandys

PSALME XLIV.

As the 3.

LORD! we have heard our Fathers tell The Wonders wrought by thee of old, To them by their great Grandsires told; How by thy Hand the Heathen fell;

Of fruitfull Canaan dispossest, And Israel planted in their roome; They perisht by a fearefull Doome, While ours in growth and strength increast.

Not their owne Swords that pleasant Land Did conquer, and their Foes eject; Nor did their armes their lives protect: It was thy Arme and powerfull Hand;

It was the Spendor of thy Face; And by thy Favour they o'rcame. My King, my God, O still the same! Salvation send to Jacobs Race.

For by thy Aide our Enemies Lay bleeding on the stained ground; And in thy Name we did confound VVho ever durst against us rise.

Our Sword's unable to defend; We will not trust in our weake Bowes.

Thou, Lord, hast sav'd us from our Foes, And brought them to ashamefull end.

[Part. 2] For this with praises we adore, And ever celebrate thy Name: But now Thou casts us off to shame, Nor lead'st our Armies as before.

Our faces from our Foes reverst; A Spoile to such as hunt for blood: Thou giv'st us up as Sheep for food, Among th'uncircumcis'd disperst.

For nought thou dost thy People sell, Nor art inriched by their price; Our Neighbours in our fall rejoyce; A Scorne to all that neare us dwell.

A By-word to the Heathen growne, Who shake their heads in our disgrace: My shame is still before my face; My eyes to Earth with blushes throwne.

Sprung from the bold blasphemers taunts, And proud Avengers threatning looke: Yet, Lord, we have not thee forsooke, Nor falsify'd thy Covenants.

[Part. 3] Our hearts have not their Faith dissolv'd; Our Steps the Path prescribed keep: Though Thou hast crusht us in the Deep, And with the shades of Death involv'd.

For should we from the Lord depart, Or to strange Gods our hearts upreare; O would not this to him appeare, Who knowes the Secrets of our Heart?

Yet for thy sake are daily slaine; For slaughter mark'd like butcher'd Sheepe. Awake, O Lord, why dost thou sleepe? Rise, nor for ever Vs disdaine.

O to thy Owne at length returne! Why dost Thou hide thy chearfull face? With-drawing thy accustom'd Grace From such as in Affliction mourne?

For lo! our Soules, are wrapt in dust; Our bellies to the Centre cleave: O, for thy Mercies sake receive, And succour those who in Thee trust!