A song of degrees.
1 FRom my youth, now may Isr’el say,
oft have they me assail’d:
2 They me assail’d oft from my youth,
yet ‘gainst me nought prevail’d.
3 The ploughers plough’d upon my back,
their furrows long they drew:
4 The righteous Lord the wicked’s cords
he did asunder-hew.
5 Let all that Sion hate be sham’d,
and turn’d back together.
6 As grass on house tops, let them be,
which ere it’s grown, doth wither:
7 Whereof that which might fill his hand
the mower doth not find:
nor therewith he his bosom fills
that doth the sheaves up bind.
8 Neither do they that pass by, say,
Jehovah’s blessing be
on you: you in Jehovah’s Name
a blessing wish do we.