Psal : 42 (Add. MS. 11744, British Library)

Like as the Hart that hotly chast
The water brookes doe panting seeke
So doth my soul w^th sighing wast
Till god my Sauour it doth meet

For God the liuing god my soule
In ardent thirstings pine away
And longing thoughts about it roule
To come before him I shal know the day

For day & night my meat hath beene
Halfe broken sights^note in salt teares sod
Whilst wicked men does proudly deeme
Me quit forsake of my god

When to my thoughts these things doe come
How sadly do'ht my soule deiect
Who gladly once to thy Temple run
W^th multitudes thy praises ther t'erect

Why art thou then cast downe my soule
And frettest thus w^thin my brest
To praise thy god yett be thou bold
His countinance shal giue the rest

Lord what soule greefe I haue thou knowes
Yett stil remember thee I will
From land wher firtill Jordan flowes
And top of Herman's shady Hill

When deepe on deepe doth loudly call
Thyne Aquaducts ther streames send out
So on me doth thy billowes fall
And waues in compas me about

Yitt wil the Lord command for me
His kindness in the day time ther
And in the night his songs shall be
The subiect of my thankfull praere

Then wil I say to god my rocke
In sadness thus why dotd I goe
Why hast thou me thus quit forgott
Whilst I'm opressed of my foe

Reproch & scorne they on me lay
As swords into my bowels thrust
Whilst vnto me they daly say
Wher is thy god in wh^ch thou trusts

But why art thou cast downe my soule
And thus disquieted in my brest
To praise thy God yitt be thou bold
His Countinance shall giue the rest

sights. Fairfax always writes 'sights' when he means 'sighs'. [back to text]

Like as the hart that, hotly chased,
The water brooks do panting seek,
So doth my soul with sighing waste
Till God my Saviour it doth meet.

For God, the living God, my soul
In ardent thirstings pine[s] away,
And longing thoughts about it roll
To come before him I shal know the day.

For day & night my meat hath been
Half broken sighs in salt tears sod,
Whilst wicked men do proudly deem
Me quite forsaken of my God.

When to my thoughts these things do come,
How sadly do't my soul deject
Who gladly once to thy temple ran
With multitudes thy praises there t'erect.

Why art thou then cast down, my soul,
And frettest thus within my breast?
To praise thy God yet be thou bold:
His countenance shall give thee rest.

Lord, what soule grief I have thou knows,
Yet still remember thee I will,
From land where fertile Jordan flows
And top of Herman's shady hill.

When deep on deep doth loudly call,
Thine aqueducts their streams send out;
So on me doth thy billows fall
And waves encompass me about.

Yet will the Lord command for me
His kindness in the day time there
And in the night his songs shall be
The subject of my thankful prayer.

Then will I say to God, my rock,
In sadness thus why do I go?
Why hast thou me thus quite forgot
Whilst I'm opresséd of my foe?

Reproach and scorn they on me lay,
As swords into my bowels thrust,
Whilst unto me they daily say,
Where is thy God in which thou trusts?

But why art thou cast down my soul
And thus disquieted in my breast?
To praise thy God yet be thou bold:
His countenance shall give thee rest.