How numerous are they now grown!
How wicked their intent!
O let thy mighty power be shown,
Their mischief to prevent.
They make assaults on every side,
But Thou stand'st in the gap;
Their batt'ring-rams make breaches wide,
But still Thou mak'st them up.
Sometimes they use alluring wiles
To draw into their power;
And sometimes weep like crocodiles;
But all is to devour.
Thus they beset my feeble heart
With fraud, deceit, and guile,
Alluring her from Thee to start,
And Thy pure rest defile.
But, oh! the breathing and the moan,
The sighings of the seed,
The groanings of the grieved one,
Do sorrows in me breed.
And that immortal, holy birth,
The offspring of Thy breath
(To whom Thy love brings life and mirth,
As doth thy absence, death);
That babe, that seed, that panting child,
Which cannot Thee forsake,
In fear to be again beguiled,
Doth supplication make:
O suffer not Thy chosen one,
Who puts her trust in Thee,