Translations. - The Twelfth Psalm. (Luther's Song-Book.)

A poem by George MacDonald

Ah God, from heaven look down and view;
Let it thy pity waken;
Behold thy saints how very few!
We wretches are forsaken.
Thy word they grant nor true nor right,
And faith is thus extinguished quite
Among the sons of Adam.

They teach a cunning false and fine--
In their own wits they found it;
Their heart in one doth not combine,
Nor on God's word they ground it;
One chooses this, the other that;
Endless division they are at,
And yet they keep smooth faces.

God will outroot the teachers all
Who with false shows present us;
Besides, their proud tongues loudly call--
Tush! tush!--who can prevent us?
We have the right and might in full;
And what we say, that is the rule;
Who dares to give us lessons!

Therefore saith God: I must be up;
My poor ones ill are faring;
Their sighs crowd up to Zion's top.
My ear their cry is hearing.
My wholesome word shall speedily
With comfort fill them, fresh and free,
And strength be to the needy.

Silver that seven times is tried
With fire, is found the purer;
God's word the same test must abide--
It still comes out the surer.
It shall by crosses proved be;
Men shall its power and glory see
Shine strong upon the nations.

God will its purity defend
From this ill generation.
Let us ourselves to thee commend
Lest we fall from our station;
The godless rout is all around
Where these rude wanton ones are found
Against thy folk exalted.

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