James Merrick Psalm 3

James Merrick Psalm 3

Behold, my God, what num'rous foes With dire intent my steps inclose, While, flush'd with hope, the impious band In haughty triumph round me stand: "Lo! there, they cry, our obvious prey, The wretch, whom God has cast away."

But see omnipotence my shield! My head aloft by thee upheld, Thy fav'ring beams around me shine; Thou, Lord, from Sion's hallow'd shrine With kind regard shalt hear my cry, And instant grant the wish'd reply.

Oppress'd with toil I sought repose, I laid me down, I slept, I rose; For thou, my God, wert waking still, To guard my slumbring head from ill. Though myriads, leagu'd, against me rise, My heart secure their rage defies.

Thy aid, blest Lord, indulgent yield: Oft, as I trod the doubtful field, Each hostile cheek has felt thy stroke; Thy rod their teeth vindictive broke; O yield (nor shall I ask in vain,) That oft-experienc'd aid again.

Th'impending storm, my God, assuage, 'Tis thine to quell their impious rage; 'Tis thine, great God, 'tis thine to save Thy servants from th'expecting grave; 'Tis thine to bless them from above, And crown them with eternal love.