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Psal 42 (MS. Fairfax 38, The Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford)

MS. Fairfax 38 index
Psalm 30
Psalm 30
"Psalme 30". MS. Fairfax 38, The Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford.


O could my Heart that pitch attaine ⸗
With Praise 'exalt thy holy Name ⸗
Who from the Dust hast rais'ed mee high ⸗
'Boue Enuie's Reach and Obloquie ,
And when my Soule to Graue was brought ⸗
My Life in th'Armes of Mercy'sis caught ,
Such was his Loue as not t'admitt ⸗
A Pow'er destructiue to the Pitt ,
What ca'nst thou then O my soule doe less ⸗
Then magnifie his Holynesse ,
A little space his Anger [?] stays ⸗
But in his Fauour's length of dayes ,
And though a night our weepings last ⸗
Th'Aproachinge morne of Joye doês hast ,
My Thoughts on this did streight presume ⸗
Theise dayes of Joy should not consume ,
Since Lord thy Fauours seem'd as Propps ⸗
That shored vp my Mountaine-hopes ,
But when thy face had on itt's vaile ⸗
A thousand troubles did assaile ,
Yet when (for greif) I made my moane ⸗
Compassion was 'boue Justice showne ;
When in the Pitt I'me sunk, What good
Or proffet is then in my bloud ?
Can Dust of Dust a Trophy raise ⸗
To shew thyne high deserued praise ?
But from thyne eye a gracious glance ⸗
Has chang'd my Mourninge to a Dance ,
And for the Sack in which I'as cladd ⸗
Thy Rightious garments make me gladd ,
That on thyne Altar I might raise ⸗
A Lastinge Monuments of Praise /

Modernized Text

Oh, could my heart that pitch attain
With praise t'exalt thy holy 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 not t'admit
A power destructive to the pit.
What can'st thou then, my 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 weepings last,
Th'aproaching morn of joy does hast.
My thoughts on this did straight presume
These days of joy should not consume,
Since, Lord, thy favours seemed as props
That shoréd up my mountain-hopes;
But when thy face had on its vail
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 profit is then in my blood?
Can dust of dust a trophy raise
To show thy high deservéd praise?
But from thine eye a gracious glance
Has changed my mourning to a dance;
And for the sack in which I'[w]as clad,
Thy rightious garments make me glad,
That on thine altar I might raise
A lasting monument of praise.

MS. Fairfax 38 index


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