The constant hope of soules opprest " PSALM X. AS THE LIST PSALM, "O God, consider." WHY stand'st thou, Lord, aloofe so long, And hid'st thee in due times of need, 2 While lewd men proudly offer wrong Unto the poore ?. In their owne deed And their device, let them be caught. 3 For, loe, the wicked braves and boasts, In his vile and outragious thought; And blesseth him, that ravines most. 4 On God he dares insult: his pride Scornes to enquire of powers above; But his stout thoughts have still deni'd 5 There is a God. His wayes yet prove Aye prosperous: thy judgements hye Doe farre surmount his dimmer sight. 6 Therefore doth he all foes defie: His heart saith, I shall stand in spight, Nor ever move; nor danger 'bide. 7 His mouth is fill'd with curses foule, And with close fraud: his tongue doth hide 8 Mischiefe and ill: he seekes the soule Of harmelesse men, in secret wait; Doth shed their blood: with scorne and hate, 9 As some fell lion in his den, He closely lurks, the poore to spoyle: 10 He crowcheth low in cunning wile, And bowes his brest; whereon whole throngs 11 God hath forgot, in soule he sayes: 13 Shall these insulting wretches scorne Their God; and say, thou wilt not care? The helpe of orphans and oppressed. 16 The Lord, as King, for ever reignes. From forth his coasts, the heathen sect 17 Are rooted quite: thou, Lord, attend'st To poore men's suits; thou do'st direct Their hearts: to them thine eare thou bend'st; 18 That thou mayst rescue from despight, The wofull fatherlesse and poore: That so, the vaine and earthen wight On us may tyrannize no more. ANTHEMS FOR THE CATHEDRAL OF EXETER LORD, what am I? A worm, dust, vapor, nothing! Where am I, Lord? Downe in a vale of death: Lord, what art thou? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss: What state? Attendance of each glorious sp'rit: How shall I reach thee, Lord? Oh, soar above, ANTHEM FOR CHRISTMAS DAY. IMMORTALL babe, who this dear day Shine, happy Star, ye Angels sing Glory on high to Heaven's King: Run, Shepherds, leave your nightly watch, See heaven come down to Bethleem's cratch. Worship, ye Sages of the East, The King of Gods in meanness drest. O Blessed Maid, smile and adore The God, thy womb and armes have bore. Star, Angels, Shepherds, and wise Sages; LEAVE, O my soul, this baser world below, Lo there thy Saviour dear in glory dight That hand, that held the scornfull reed, Makes all the fiends infernall dread: That back and side, that ran with bloody streams, Those lips, once drench't with gall, do make And, when thou seest this state divine, See there the happy troups of purest sprights, And now, beforehand, help to sing |