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Isaac Watts - Psalm 102 part 1
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v.1-13,20,21 
C. M.
A prayer of the afflicted.

Hear me, O God, nor hide thy face;
But answer, lest I die;
Hast thou not built a throne of grace
To hear when sinners cry?

My days are wasted like the smoke
Dissolving in the air;
My strength is dried, my heart is broke,
And sinking in despair.

My spirits flag like with`ring grass
Burnt with excessive heat;
In secret groans my minutes pass,
And I forget to eat.

As on some lonely building`s top
The sparrow tells her moan,
Far from the tents of joy and hope
I sit and grieve alone.

My soul is like a wilderness,
Where beasts of midnight howl;
There the sad raven finds her place,
And there the screaming owl.

Dark, dismal thoughts, and boding fears,
Dwell in my troubled breast;
While sharp reproaches wound my ears,
Nor give my spirit rest.

My cup is mingled with my woes,
And tears are my repast;
My daily bread, like ashes, grows
Unpleasant to my taste.

Sense can afford no real joy
To souls that feel thy frown;
Lord, `twas thy hand advanced me high,
Thy hand hath cast me down.

My looks like withered leaves appear;
And life`s declining light
Grows faint as evening shadows are
That vanish into night.

But thou for ever art the same,
O my eternal God;
Ages to come shall know thy name,
And spread thy works abroad.

Thou wilt arise and show thy face,
Nor will my Lord delay
Beyond th` appointed hour of grace,
That long-expected day.

He hears his saints, he knows their cry,
And by mysterious ways
Redeems the pris`ners doomed to die,
And fills their tongues with praise.
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