1 To thee, O Lord, I raise my cries;
My fervent pray'r in mercy hear;
For ruin waits my trembling soul,
If thou refuse a gracious ear.

2 When suppliant tow'rd thy holy hill,
I left my mournful hands to pray,
Afford thy grace, nor drive me still,
With impious hypocrites away.

3 To sons of falsehood, that despise
The works and wonders of thy reign,
Thy vengeance give the due reward,
And sinks their souls to endless pain.

4 But, ever blessed by the Lord,
Whose mercy hears my mournful voice,
My heart, that trusted in his word,
In his salvation shall rejoice.

5 Let ev'ry saint, in sore distress,
By faith approach his Saviour, God:
Then grant, O Lord, thy pard'ning grace,
And feed thy church with heav'nly food.