To thee, O Lord, my cries ascend, O haste to my relief (Tate and Brady)

Verse 1

To thee, O Lord, my cries ascend, O haste to my relief; And with accustom'd pity hear The sccents of my grief.

Verse 2

Instead of off'rings, let my pray'r Like morning incense rise; My lifted hands supply the place Of ev'ning sacrifice.

Verse 3

From hasty language curb my tongue, And let a constant guard Still keep the portal of my lips, With wary silence barr'd.

Verse 4

From wicked men's designs and deeds My heart and hands restrain; Nor let me in the booty share Of their unrighteous gain.

Verse 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.

Verse 6

And in return, my fervent pray'r I shall for them address, When thy are tempted and reduc'd, Like me, to sore distress.