The Impenitent Man’s Lot

O God

whom I in praise ad­ore

Be si­lent in my cause no more;

Their mouths the wick­ed op­en wide;

Against me hy­po­crites have lied.

With words of hate they throng around

And fight

al­though no cause be found;

My love pro­vokes their bit­ter spite

But I in con­stant pray­er de­light.

With ev­il they my good re­ward

With hat­red meet my kind re­gard;

Place him be­neath the wick­ed’s hand

And on his right let Sa­tan stand.

In judg­ment let his plea be spurned

And let his pray­er to sin be turned;

His days be few

and in his room

To of­fice let an­othe­r come.

A wi­dow let his wife be left

His child­ren of their sire be­reft;

Let them be scat­tered far from home

And begging bread through de­serts roam.

Extortioners his sub­stance take

His toil a prey let strang­ers make;

Let him from none com­pas­sion know

None to his or­phans fa­vor show.

His seed let per­ish in their shame

The com­ing age blot out their name;

His fa­ther’s sin Je­ho­vah mind

His mo­ther’s sin no par­don find.

Let them with God ne’er be for­got

Till He from earth their me­mo­ry blot;

For he re­mem­bered not to show

Compassion to the sons of woe.

The poor and those with want dis­tressed

He per­se­cut­ed and op­pressed;

He them pur­sued to make his prey

And brok­en-hear­ted ones to slay.

The curse he loved on him shall rest

He

bless­ing not

shall not be blest

Himself with curs­ing be ar­rayed

To him shall curs­ing be re­paid.

In him like wa­ter it shall flow

Like oil through all his bones shall go;

Like rai­ment it shall clothe him o’er

A gir­dle bind­ing ev­er­more.

Foes and ac­cus­ers

from the Lord

Shall find in curs­ing their r­eward

But God the Lord

for Thy name’s sake

For me in mer­cy un­der­take.

Because Thy grace is rich and free

From all my foes de­liv­er me;

I’m poor and needy

grant re­lief

My heart with­in is pierced with grief.

Like lo­cust tossed

like fleet­ing shade

My days to pass away are made;

Through many fasts my strength de­clines

My knees are weak

my bo­dy pines.

To foes a vile re­proach I’m made

On me they look and shake the head;

O Lord

my God

my help­er be

In Thy great mer­cy save Thou me.

That this to them

Lord

may be known

Has by Thy migh­ty arm been done;

They curse

but let their curse be vain

Thy bless­ing

Lord

let me ob­tain.

When they arise shamed let them be

But make Thy serv­ant glad in Thee;

Let foes be covered with dis­grace

And man­tle o’er with shame their face.

My mouth shall great­ly praise the Lord

Yea

with the throng His praise r­ecord

For on the poor’s right hand shall He

Stand up

his soul from wrong to free.