Lord, grant, oh grant me thy compassion ; <br />For I in thee my trust haue placed ; <br />Display thy wings for my saluation, <br />Until my greefs are over-passed. <br />To thee I sue, Oh God most high, <br />To thee that canst all want supplie. <br /> <br />From their despights who seek to rend mee, <br />Let help, O Lord ! from heaven be daigned, <br />And let thy truth and loue defend me ; <br />For I with lions am detained: <br />With men inflam'd, whose biting words <br />Are shafts, and speares, and naked swords. <br /> <br />Let over heauen God's praise be reared, <br />And through the world his glorie showed; <br />For they who netts for mee prepared, <br />(They who my soul to ground had bowed,) <br />Eu'n they within those trapps are caught, <br />Which for my fall their hands had wrought. <br /> <br />Oh God ! my hart now ready maketh, <br />My hart is for thy praise preparing; <br />My tongue, my harpe, my lute awaketh, <br />And I myselfe betimes vprearing, <br />Will speak and sing in praise of thee, <br />Where greatest throngs of people be. <br /> <br />For, Lord, thy mercies forth are stretched, <br />As farr as are the sphears extended; <br />Thy truth unto the clouds hath reached, <br />And thou thyself art high ascended. <br />Let still, thy fame and praise, Oh God! <br />Through heauen and earth be spread abrode.<br /><br />George Wither<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/psalm-lvii/
