by Isaac Watts, 1719How long wilt Thou conceal Thy face?
My God, how long delay?
When shall I feel those heav’nly rays
That chase my fears away?
How long shall my poor laboring soul
Wrestle and toil in vain?
Thy word can all my foes control
And ease my raging pain.
See how the prince of darkness tries
All his malicious arts;
He spreads a mist around my eyes,
And throws his fiery darts.
Be Thou my sun, and Thou my shield,
My soul in safety keep;
Make haste, before mine eyes are sealed
In death’s eternal sleep.
How would the tempter boast aloud
If I become his prey!
Behold, the sons of hell grow proud
At Thy so long delay.
But they shall fly at Thy rebuke,
And Satan hide his head;
He knows the terrors of Thy look,
And hears Thy voice with dread.
Thou wilt display Thy sovereign grace,
Where all my hopes have hung,
I shall employ my lips in praise
And victory shall be sung.
