I

PSAL. LXXXVI.

THY

HY gracious ear, O Lord, encline,
O hear me I thee pray,

For I am poor, and almost pine

With need, and fad decay.

2 Preserve my Soul, for † I have trod

Thy wayes, and love the juft,

Save thou thy Servant, O my God,
Who ftill in thee doth truft.

3 Pity me, Lord, for daily thee

I call; 4. O make rejoice

Thy Servant's Soul; for Lord to thee

5

I lift my Soul and voice,

† Heb. I am good, loving a doer of good and holy things.

For thou art good, thou Lord art prone

To pardon, thou to all

Art full of mercy, thou alone

To them that on thee call.Ÿ

6 Unto my fupplication, Lord, Give ear, and to the

cry

Of my incessant prayers afford.

Thy hearing graciously.

Will call on thee for aid;

For thou wilt grant me free access,
And anfwer, what I pray'd.

8 Like thee among the Gods is none,
O Lord, nor any works

Of all that other Gods have done
Like to thy glorious works.

9 The Nations all whom thou haft made Shall come, and all shall frame

To bow them low before thee, Lord,

And glorifie thy name.

10 For great thou art, and wonders great

By thy ftrong hand are done,

Thou in thy everlafting Seat

Remaineft God alone.

11 Teach me, O Lord, thy way most right,

I in thy truth will bide,

To fear thy name my heart unite,

So fhall it never flide.

12 Thee will I praise, O Lord my God,

Thee honour and adore

With my whole heart, and blaze abroad

Thy name for evermore.

13 For great thy mercy is tow'rd me,
And thou haft free'd my Soul,

Ev'n from the lowest Hell fet free
From deepest darkness foul.

14 O God the proud against me rife,
And violent men are met

To feek my life, and in their eyes

15

No fear of thee have fet.

But thou, Lord, art the God most mild,

Readieft thy grace to shew,

Slow to be angry, and art ftil'd

Moft merciful, most true.

16 O turn to me thy face at length,
And me have mercy on,

Unto thy fervant give thy ftrength,
And fave thy hand-maid's Son.

17 Some fign of good to me afford,

And let my foes then fee,

And be asham'd, because thou Lord

Dost help and comfort me.

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PSAL.

PSAL. LXXXVII.

A Mong the holy Mountains high

Is his foundation fast,

There Seated in his Sanctuary,

His Temple there is plac'd.

2 Sion's fair Gates the Lord loves more
Than all the dwellings fair

Of Jacob's Land, though there be store,
And all within his care.

3 City of God, most glorious things
Of thee abroad are spoke;

4

I mention Ægypt, where proud Kings
Did our Forefathers yoke.

I mention Babel to my friends,

Philiftia full of scorn,

And Tyre with Ethiops utmost ends,
Lo this man there was born:

5 But twice that praise fhall in our ear
Be faid of Sion last,

This and this man was born in her,

High God shall fix her fast.

6 The Lord fhall write it in a Scrowle

That ne'er shall be out-worn,

When he the Nations doth enrowle,

That this man there was born.

7 Both they who fing, and they who dance;
With facred Songs are there,

In thee fresh brooks, and foft ftreams glance,
And all my fountains clear.

L

PSAL. LXXXVIII.

Ord God that doft me fave and keep,

All day to thee I cry;

And all night long, before thee

Before thee proftrate lie.

weep,

2 Into thy presence let my pray'r With fighs devout afcend,

And to my cryes, that ceafelefs are,

Thine ear with favour bend.

3 For cloy'd with woes and trouble store Surcharg'd my Soul doth lie,