issue, almost every one of them, in a sudden counter-cry of joy as
pathetic as the sorrow which has gone before. 'O Lord, rebuke me
not in thine indignation: neither chasten me in thy displeasure.
Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am weak: O Lord, heal me, for my
bones are vexed. My soul also is sore troubled: but, Lord, how
long wilt thou punish me? Turn thee, O Lord, and deliver my soul:
O save me for thy mercy's sake. For in death no man remembereth
thee: and who will give thee thanks in the pit? I am weary of my
groaning; every night wash I my bed: and water my couch with my
tears. My beauty is gone for very trouble: and worn away because
of all mine enemies. Away from me, all ye that work vanity, for the
Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping. The Lord hath heard my
petition: the Lord will receive my prayer.'

Faith it is, in like wise, which gives its peculiar grandeur to that
wonderful 18th Psalm, David's song of triumph; his masterpiece, and
it may be the masterpiece of human poetry, inspired or uninspired,
only approached by the companion-Psalm, the 144th. From whence
comes that cumulative energy, by which it rushes on, even in our
translation, with a force and swiftness which are indeed divine;
thought following thought, image image, verse verse, before the
breath of the Spirit of God, as wave leaps after wave before the
gale? What is the element in that ode, which even now makes it stir
the heart like a trumpet? Surely that which it itself declares in
the very first verse:

'I will love thee, O Lord, my strength; the Lord is my stony rock,
and my defence: my Saviour, my God, and my might, in whom I will
trust, my buckler, the horn also of my salvation, and my refuge.'