To thee, O Lord, my cries ascend, O hasten thou to my relief (Hopkinson)

Verse 1

To thee, O LORD, my Cries ascend; Oh, hasten thou to my Relief, And with accustom'd Pity hear The mournful Accents of my Grief; And when I lift my Voice to thee, Do thou vouchsafe to comfort me.

Verse 2

Instead of Off'rings, let my Pray'r To Heav'n, like Morning-Incense rise; And let my lifted Hands supply The Place of Ev'ning Sacrifice. Let Prudence be my constant Guard, My Lips with wary Silence barr'd.

Verse 3

From wicked Men's Designs and Deeds, Do thou my Heart and Hands restrain; Nor let me in the Booty share Of their most base unrighteous Gain; Lest I, like them, should go astray, And leave thy pure and perfect Way.

Verse 4

Let upright Men reprove my Faults, And I shall still believe them kind; Like Balm that heals a wounded Head, Their Admonitions I shall find; When they're reduc'd to like Distress, My Pray'r for them I will address.

Verse 5

When skulking in Engedi's Rock, I to their haughty Chiefs appeal; If one reproachful Word I spoke, Although I had Pow'r to kill; And yet our scatter'd Ruins lie, Like Chips that from the Axes fly.

Verse 6

But gracious LORD, to thee I will Direct my supplicating Eyes; O! leave not destitute my Soul, Whose Trust on thee alone relies. Let them in Snares entrapped be, Which their own Hands design'd for me.