He counts the sorrows of his saints,
Our groans affect his ears;
He keeps a book for my complaints,
A bottle for my tears.
Sons of violence, sons of lies
Devour my life, O Lord
But as my hourly dangers rise,
My refuge is thy Word.
When to thy throne I raise my cry,
The wicked fear and flee
So swift is prayer to reach the sky,
So near is God to me.
O, most holy, just and true,
In thee I place my trust
Nor will I fear what man can do
The offspring of the dust.
Thy solemn vows are on me Lord,
Thou shalt receive my praise;
I sing, "How faithful is thy Word,
How righteous all thy ways!"
Thou hast saved my soul from death,
O set they prisoner free!
That heart and hand, and every breath,
May be employed for thee.
-Isaac Watts, 1719