THE PSALMS of DAVID, PSALM CXLVII

Praise ye the Lord; 'tis good to sing The Praises of our God, and King; Praise is the most delightful Theme, And nothing more becomes our Frame. The Lord Ierus'lem doth repair; And bring his scatter'd Exiles there. He kindly heals the broken Heart; Binds up their Wounds, allays their Smart. He numbers all the starry Flames; And calls them by their various Names. Great is our Lord, of boundless Might; His Understanding's infinite. The Lord the Meek hath rais'd, and crown'd; But cast the Wicked to the Ground. To God your thankful Praises sing; And join the Harps melodious String. Who clouds the Sky, prepares the Rains; Makes Grass to grow on Mounts, and Plains, His Treasures, Beasts with Food, supply; And the young Ravens, when they cry. He, in the Strength, or nimble Flight, Of Horse, or Man, takes no Delight. The Lord takes Pleasure in the Just; And those that in his Mercy trust.