Psal 30 (MS. Fairfax 40, The Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford)
Transcription
O could my hart that soring pich attaine
Wth eu'erlasting prayse to' exalt thy name
Who from the dust hath rais'd me high
'Boue enuies reach & obliquie
And when my soule to graue was brought
My life in th'armes of mercy caught
Such was his loue not to admitt
A powre distructiue to the pitt
Whatt can'st thou for th then ô soule doe less
Then magīfie his holyness
A little space his Anger stays
But in his fauours lenght of days
And though a night our weepings last
The'aproaching morn'e of ioy doe hast
My thoughts on this did stright presume
Thes days of ioy should not consume
Sence lord thy fauours seemd as propps
That shored vp my mountaine hopes
But once thy face ha did draw¯e it's vaile
A thousand troubles did assaile
Yitt when for greefe I made my mone
Compassion was boue Justice showne
When in the pitt I'm sunke what good
Or proffet is ther in my blood
Can dust of dust Trophyes raise
To shew thy works or high disarued prayse
No, but from thyn eye a gratious glance
Has chang'd my mourning to a dance
And for the sackloth in wch I'as clad
Thy rightious garments makes me glad
That on thyn Altars I might raise
To thee lasting monements of prayse
Modernized Text
Oh, could my heart that pitch attain
With e'erlasting praise t'exalt thy name,
Who from the dust hath raised me high
'Bove envy's reach and obliquy;
And when my soul to grave was brought
My life in th'armes of mercy caught.
Such was his love not to admit
A power destructive to the pit.
What can'st thou then, oh soul, do less
Than magnify his holiness?
A little space his anger stays,
But in his favour's length of days;
And though a night our weepings last,
Th'aproaching morn of joy do hast.
My thoughts on this did straight presume
These days of joy should not consume,
Since, Lord, thy favours seemed as props
That shoréd up my mountain hopes;
But once thy face did draw its vail
A thousand troubles did assail.
Yet when for grief I made my moan,
Compassion was 'bove justice shown.
When in the pit I'm sunk, what good
Or profit is there in my blood?
Can dust of dust trophies raise
To show thy high deservéd praise?
No, but from thine eye a gracious glance
Has changed my mourning to a dance;
And for the sackcloth in which I'as clad,
Thy rightious garments makes me glad,
That on thine altars I might raise
To thee lasting monuments of praise.
Compare Add MS 11744
Compare MS Fairfax 38
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Compare interlinear translation of Hebrew original
