Psalm 141 (Tate & Brady)

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.