To Thee O Lord My Cries Ascend Tate

To thee, O Lord, my cries ascend,
O haste to my relief;
And with accustom’d pity hear
The sccents of my grief.

Instead of off’rings, let my pray’r
Like morning incense rise;
My lifted hands supply the place
Of ev’ning sacrifice.

From hasty language curb my tongue,
And let a constant guard
Still keep the portal of my lips,
With wary silence barr’d.

From wicked men’s designs and deeds
My heart and hands restrain;
Nor let me in the booty share
Of their unrighteous gain.

Let upright men reprove my faults,
And I shall think them kind;
Like balm that heals a wounded head,
I their reproof shall find.

And in return, my fervent pray’r
I shall for them address,
When thy are tempted and reduc’d,
Like me, to sore distress.