1 To thee, O Lord, my cries ascend,
O haste to my relief;
And with accustomed pity hear
the accents of my grief.
2 Instead of off'rings, let my pray'r
like morning incense rise;
My lifted hands supply the place
of ev'ning sacrifice.
3 From hasty language curb my tongue,
and let a constant guard
Still keep the portal of my lips,
with wary silence barred.
4 From wicked men's designs and deeds
my heart and hands restrain
Nor let me in the booty share
of their unrighteous gain.
5 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 they are tempted and reduced,
like me, to sore distress.
6 When skulking in En-gedi's rock
I to their chiefs appeal,
If one reproachful word I spoke,
When I had pow'r to kill.
7 Yet us they persecute to death;
our scattered ruins lie
As thick as from the hewer's axe
the severed splinters fly.
8 But, Lord, to thee I still direct
my supplicating eyes;
O leave not destitute my soul,
whose trust on thee relies.
9 Do thou preserve me from the snares
that wicked hands have laid:
Let them in their own nets be caught,
while my escape is made.