1 Up from my youth, may Israel say, Have I been nurs'd in tears; My griefs were constant as the day, And tedious as the years.
2 Up from my youth I bore the rage Of all the sons of strife; Oft they assail'd my riper age, But not destroy'd my life.
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.]