Poetry Archives

Aug. 9.
When He Fled From Absalom.

Lord how many are my foes
How many those
That in arms against me rise
Many are they
That of my life distrustfully thus say,
No help for him in God there lies.
But thou Lord art my shield my glory,
Thee through my story
Th’ exalter of my head I count
Aloud I cry’d
Unto Jehovah, he full soon reply’d
And heard me from his holy mount.
I lay and slept, I wak’d again,
For my sustain
Was the Lord.  Of many millions
The populous rout
I fear not though incamping round about
They pitch against me their Pavillions.
Rise Lord, save me my God for thou
Hast smote ere now
On the cheek-bone all my foes,
Of men abhor’d
Hast broke the teeth.  This help was from the Lord;
Thy blessing on thy people flows.