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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.