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PSALM LVII.
O Thou,* 1.1 from whom all Mercy springs,
Compassionate my Sufferings;
And pity me,
That trust in Thee!
O shelter with thy shady Wings,
Until these storms of Woe
Clear-up, or over-blow!
Thee I invoke, O thou Most High,
Thou All-performer! from the Skie
Thy Angels send;
Let them defend
My Soul from him that would destroy:
O send thy Mercy down;
With Truth thy Promise crown!
For Salvage Lions girt me round,
And they whose Malice knows no bound;
Their cruel Words
More sharp than Swords;
Their Teeth like Spears and Arrows wound.
To Heav'n thy Glory raise;
Let Earth resound thy Praise.
They subtil snares prepared have,
And bow'd my Souleven to the Grave:
With wicked wit
Have digg'd a pit,
From which themselves they could not save▪
But justly fell therein,
Intrapt by their own Sin.