1 I with my voice cry’d to the Lord,
with it made my request:
2 Pour’d out to him my plaint, to him
my trouble I exprest.
3 When in me was o’erwhelm’d my sp’rit,
then well thou knew’st my way;
Where I did walk a snare for me
they privily did lay.
4 I look’d on my right hand, and view’d,
but none to know me were;
All refuge failed me, no man
did for my soul take care.
5 I cry’d to thee; I said, Thou art
my refuge, Lord, alone;
And in the land of those that live
thou art my portion.
6 Because I am brought very low,
attend unto my cry:
Me from my persecutors save,
who stronger are than I.
7 From prison bring my soul, that I
thy name may glorify:
The just shall compass me, when thou
with me deal’st bounteously.
Common Metre (8,6,8,6)