PSAL. III. Aug. 9. 1653

         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.