XLVII. Richard Gipps

DOE not correct me in thy wrath, O God,

Nor in thy fury let me feele thy rod.

For I am weake, Lord, pittie me therefore;

Lord, heale me, for my very bones are sore.

My soule is troubled, and hath much dismai’d me;

But, Lord, how long wilt thou forbeare to aid me?

O turne againe, and me for pitty save,

And my poore soule deliver from the grave.

Shall dead men’s bones to future ages blaze thee?

Or hath the grave’s wide mouth a tongue to praise thee?

Each night with mourning I bedew my bed,

And with salt teares my couch is watered.

My sight growes dym: mine eies are sunck, to see

My foes reioyce, and work my miserie.

But now, ye workers of iniquitie,

The Lord hath heard my crie; depart from me:

He heares my mournfull lamentation,

And will receive my supplication:

He will confound my foes, and vex them all;

Shame and confusion shall them befall.