Thy Dreadful Anger Lord Restrain And Spa

Thy dreadful anger, Lord, restrain,
And spare a wretch forlorn;
Correct me not in thy fierce wrath,
Too heavy to be borne.

Have mercy, Lord; for I grow faint,
Unable to endure
The anguish of my aching bones,
Which thou alone can’st cure.

My tortur’d flesh distracts my mind,
And fills my soul with grief:
But, Lord, how long wilt thou delay
To grant me thy relief?

Thy wonted goodness, Lord, repeat,
And ease my troubled soul:
Lord, for thy wondrous mercy’s sake,
Vouchsafe to make me whole.

For after death no more can I
On earth thy acts proclaim;
No pris’ner of the silent grave
Can magnify thy name.

Quite tir’d with pain, with groaning faint,
No hope of ease I see;
The night, that quiets common grief,
Is spent in tears by me.

My beauty fades, my sight grows dim,
My eyes with weakness close;
Old age o’ertakes me, whilst I think
On my insulting foes.

Depart, ye wicked; in my wrongs
Ye shall no more rejoice;
For God, I find, accepts my tears,
and listens to my voice.

He hears, and grants my humble pray’r;
And they that wish my fall,
Shall blush and rage, to see that God
Protects me from them all.