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Psalm 88 Analysis

Author: poem of John Milton Type: poem Views: 4

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Lord God that dost me save and keep,

All day to thee I cry;

And all night long, before thee weep

Before thee prostrate lie.

Into thy presence let my praier

With sighs devout ascend

And to my cries, that ceaseless are,

Thine ear with favour bend.

For cloy'd with woes and trouble store

Surcharg'd my Soul doth lie,                                    

My life at death's uncherful dore

Unto the grave draws nigh.

Reck'n'd I am with them that pass

Down to the dismal pit

I am a *man, but weak alas               * Heb. A man without manly

And for that name unfit.                                  strength.

From life discharg'd and parted quite

Among the dead to sleep

And like the slain in bloody fight

That in the grave lie deep.                                      

Whom thou rememberest no more,

Dost never more regard,

Them from thy hand deliver'd o're

Deaths hideous house hath barr'd.

Thou in the lowest pit profound'

Hast set me all forlorn,

Where thickest darkness hovers round,

In horrid deeps to mourn.

Thy wrath from which no shelter saves

Full sore doth press on me;                                      

*Thou break'st upon me all thy waves,                      *The Heb.

*And all thy waves break me                              bears both.

Thou dost my friends from me estrange,

And mak'st me odious,

Me to them odious, for they change,

And I here pent up thus.

Through sorrow, and affliction great

Mine eye grows dim and dead,

Lord all the day I thee entreat,

My hands to thee I spread.                                      

Wilt thou do wonders on the dead,

Shall the deceas'd arise

And praise thee from their loathsom bed

With pale and hollow eyes ?

Shall they thy loving kindness tell

On whom the grave hath hold,

Or they who in perdition dwell

Thy faithfulness unfold?

In darkness can thy mighty hand

Or wondrous acts be known,                                      

Thy justice in the gloomy land

Of dark oblivion?

But I to thee O Lord do cry

E're yet my life be spent,

And up to thee my praier doth hie

Each morn, and thee prevent.

Why wilt thou Lord my soul forsake,

And hide thy face from me,

That am already bruis'd, and *shake          *Heb. Prae Concussione.

With terror sent from thee;                                      

Bruz'd, and afflicted and so low

As ready to expire,

While I thy terrors undergo

Astonish'd with thine ire.

Thy fierce wrath over me doth flow

Thy threatnings cut me through.

All day they round about me go,

Like waves they me persue.

Lover and friend thou hast remov'd

And sever'd from me far.                                        

They fly me now whom I have lov'd,

And as in darkness are.