Lord, in thy wrath, reprove me not,
Though I deserve thine ire:
Nor yet correct me in thy rage,
O Lord, I thee desire.
For I am weak, therefore, O Lord,
Of mercy me forbear;
And heal me, Lord, for why? thou know'st
My bones do quake for fear.
My soul is troubled very sore,
And vex'd exceedingly;
But, Lord, how long wilt thou delay
To cure my misery?
Lord, turn thee to thy wonted grace,
Some pity on me take;
O save me, not for my deserts,
But for thy mercies' sake.
For why? no man among the dead
Rememb'reth thee at all;
Or who shall worship thee, O Lord
That in the pit do fall?
So grievous is my plaint and moan,
That I grow wond'rous faint;
All the night long I wash my bed
With tears of my complaint.
My sight is dim, and waxeth old
With anguish of my heart,
For fear of them that be my foes,
And would my soul subvert.
But now depart from me, all ye
That work iniquity;
Because the Lord hath heard the voice
Of my complaint and cry.
He heard not only the request
And pray'r of my sad heart,
But it received at my hands,
And took it in good part.
And now my foes that vexed me
The Lord will soon defame,
And suddenly confound them all
With great rebuke and shame.
text: Psalm 6. (verze od Thomasa Sternholda)
hudba: John Dowland
