Isaac Watts · 92 of 724

Psalm 39 Part 3

God of my life, look gently down, Behold the pains I feel; But I am dumb before thy throne, Nor dare dispute thy will.

Diseases are thy servants, Lord, They come at thy command; I'll not attempt a murm'ring word Against thy chast'ning hand.

Yet I may plead with humble cries, Remove thy sharp rebukes; My strength consumes, my spirit dies, Through thy repeated strokes.

Crushed as a moth beneath thy hand, We moulder to the dust; Our feeble powers can ne'er withstand, And all our beauty's lost.

[This mortal life decays apace, How soon the bubble's broke! Adam and all his num'rous race Are vanity and smoke.]

I'm but a sojourner below, As all my fathers were; May I be well prepared to go, When I the summons hear.

But if my life be spared awhile, Before my last remove, Thy praise shall be my business still, And I'll declare thy love.