1 From my Youth up, may Israel say,
They oftentimes have me assail'd;
Reduc'd me oft to heavy Straits,
But never yet have quite previl'd:
They plow'd my Back with Furrows long;
But GOD has recu'd us from Wrong.

2 Defeat, Confusion, shameful Rout
Ne still the dreadful Doom of those,
Their righteous Doom, who Sion hate,
And Sion's holy GOD oppose:
Like corn that's wither'd, let them fade,
Which too much Heat, and want of Root,
Untimely blasted in the Blade.

3 Which in his Arms no Reaper takes,
But in the Field neglected leaves;
Nor Binder thinks it worth his Pains
To fold and gather into Sheaves:
Nor Traveller vouchsafes to stop,
And crave a Blessing on the Crop.