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Psal 30 (Add. MS. 11744)


Add. MS. 11744 index
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Psal 30
Psal 30
Psal 30
"Psal 30". Add. MS. 11744 (British Library).

Transcription

O could my hart that pich attaine
Wth euerlasting praise t'exalt thy name
Who from the dust hath raised me hie
B'oue enuys reach and obliquie
And when my soule to graue was brought
My life in th'armes of mercy caught
Such was his loue as not t'admitt
A powre discructiue to the pitt
What can'st thou then ô soule doe less
Then magnifie his Holyness
A little space his anger stays
But in his fauour's lenght of days
And though a night his our weeping last
Th'aproching mor'ne of ioys doe hast
My thoughts on this did stright parsume
These days of ioys should not consume
Sence Lord thy fauours seem'd as props
That shored vp my mountaine hopes
But once thy face had drawne his vaile
A thousādnds troubles did assaile
Yitt when for greefe I maid my mone
Compassion was 'boue Iustice showne
When in the pitt I'me sunke what good
Or proffit is ther in my blood
Can dust of dust Trophys raise
To shew thy worthe or deserued praise
No: but from thy'n eye a gratious glance
H'as change'd by morning to a dance
And for the sackcloth in wch I'as clad
Thy rightious garment make's me glad
That on thyne Alters I might raise
To thee 'lasting moniment of praise

Modernized Text

Oh, could my heart that pitch attain
With everlasting praise t'exalt thy name
Who from the dust hath raised me high
'Bove envy's reach and obliquy
And when my soul to grave was brought
My life in th'armes of mercy caught.
Such was his love as not t'admit
A power destructiue to the pit.
What can'st thou then, oh soul do less
Than magnify his holiness?
A little space his anger stays
But in his favour's length of days,
And though a night our weeping last
Th'approaching morn of joys do haste.
My thoughts on this did straight resume[?]:
These days of joys should not consume,
Since, Lord, thy favours seemed as props
That shoréd up my mountain hopes,
But once thy face had drawne his veil
A thousand troubles did assail.
Yet when for grief I made my moan
Compassion was 'bove justice shown.
When in the pit I'm sunk, what good
Or proffit is their in my blood?
Can dust of dust trophies raise
To shew thy worth or deservéd praise?
No: but from thine eye a gracious glance
Has changed by mourning to a dance,
And, for the sackcloth in which I'as [I was] clad,
Thy rightious garment makes me glad,
That on thine altars I might raise
To thee a lasting monument of praise.

Psal 103 >>
Add. MS. 11744 index

 


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