3 Their cruel plough had torn my flesh
With furrows long and deep,
Hourly they vex my wounds afresh,
Nor let my sorrows sleep.

4 The Lord grew angry on his throne,
And with impartial eye
Measur’d the mischiefs they had done
Then let his arrows fly.

5 How was their insolence surpris’d
To hear his thunders roll! 
And all the foes of Zion seiz’d
With horror to the soul.

6 Thus shall the men that hate the saints
Be blasted from the sky;
Their glory fades, their courage faints,
And all their projects die.

7 [What tho’ they flourish tall and fair,
They have no root beneath;
Their growth shall perish in despair,
And lie despis’d in death.]

8 [So corn that on the house-top stands
No hope of harvest gives;
The reaper ne’er shall fill his hands,
Nor binder fold the sheaves.

9 It springs and withers on the place: 
No traveller bestows
A word of blessing on the grass,
Nor minds it as he goes.]

Psalm 130:1.  C. M.
Pardoning grace.

1 Out of the deeps of long distress,
The borders of despair,
I sent my cries to seek thy grace,
My groans to move thine ear.

2 Great God, should thy severer eye,
And thine impartial hand,
Mark and revenge iniquity,
No mortal flesh could stand.

3 But there are pardons with my God
For crimes of high degree;
Thy Son has bought them with his blood
To draw us near to thee.

4 [I wait for thy salvation, Lord,
With strong desires I wait;
My soul, invited by thy word,
Stands watching at thy gate.]

5 [Just as the guards that keep the night
Long for the morning skies,
Watch the first beams of breaking light,
And meet them with their eyes;

6 So waits my soul to see thy grace,
And more intent than they,
Meets the first openings of thy face,
And finds a brighter day.]

7 [Then in the Lord let Israel trust,
Let Israel seek his face;
The Lord is good as well as just,
And plenteous is his grace.

8 There’s full redemption at his throne
For sinners long enslav’d;
The great Redeemer is his Son,
And Israel shall be sav’d.]

Psalm 130:2.  L. M.
Pardoning grace.

1 From deep distress and troubled thoughts,
To thee, my God, I rais’d my cries;
If thou severely mark our faults,
No flesh can stand before thine eyes.

2 But thou hast built thy throne of grace,
Free to dispense thy pardons there,
That sinners may approach thy face,
And hope and love, as well as fear.

3 As the benighted pilgrims wait,
And long, and wish for breaking day,
So waits my soul before thy gate;
When will my God his face display?

4 My trust is fix’d upon thy word,
Nor shall I trust thy word in vain: 
Let mourning souls address the Lord,
And find relief from all their pain.