Thy Glorious Deeds Thy Mercies Lord Of O

Thy glorious deeds, thy mercies, Lord, of old,
Our fathers oft their progeny have told;
Their sons with pious gratitude they’ve taught,
What mighty wonders thou for them haft wrought.
How thou didst thy beneficence display,
And drov’st the nations from their seats away;
Didst the profaners of thy name destroy,
And badst thy people their domains enjoy.
For not their strength the mighty work perform’d;
Vainly without thy goodness they had arm’d;
They owe the conquest, the success, to thee;
Thy dread right-hand bestow’d the victory.
Justly thy tribes thy hallow’d courts attend;
Propitious hear them, and assistance send.
By thee alone supported, we dismay
The vaunting foe, and gain a glorious day;
By thee supported, on their necks we’ll tread,
And spurn them to the regions of the dead.
In our own bows no confidence we have,
Nor fondly hope, that our own swords can save;
But to thy conqu’ring arm our cause commit,
And in thy might our deadly foes defeat.
Therefore, while lasts this earth, thy praise we’ll sing,
And make our boast of thee, all-pow’rful king.
But now thou’st cast us off; thou leav’st us now;
No more the leader of our armies thou:
Now from the hostile bands we fly away,
Basely we fly, and prove an easy prey;
Expos’d, like sheep devoted to be slain,
We ‘mid the nations rove for peace in vain.
Thou’st of thy people made a public sale,
Nor the low price does to thy wealth avail.
A scorn unto our neighbours we are grown,
Our griefs they laugh at, and they mock our moan.
A bye-word we’re become–they shake the head–
For this, confusion has my face o’er-spread;
With shame I glow, to hear their blasphemies,
To see, with what derision they despise.
All this is now our despicable lot;
Yet we thy sacred cov’nant ne’er forgot;
Nay; in our paths whatever dangers lay,
Our steady Feet have ne’er declin’d thy way;
Tho’ sunk in deepest woe, disgrac’d, forlorn,
By vilest foes insulted, tho’ we mourn;
Tho’ we a life of abject slav’ry breathe,
And tremble on the dreadful verge of death.
Had we, O Lord, thy sov’reign pow’r denied,
And on the aid of other Gods relied;
Sure thou hadst known it, since to thee confest
Stand forth the inmost secrets of the breast:
And yet for thee we all these griefs sustain,
And like the fatlings of the fold are slain.
Why slumb’reft thou, O Lord? Awake, awake,
And not for ever thy poor tribes forsake;
Why hid thy face? Why this severe neglect?
Why our affliction wilt thou still forget?
With grief o’erburden’d, in the dust we lie,
Our weaken’d limbs their wonted aid deny,
Awake, awake; redeem us from our foes,
And let thy mercy dissipate our woes.