Blest he who wise­ly helps the poor,
In trou­ble he shall help se­cure:
The Lord shall keep him, he shall live,
And bless­ing on the earth re­ceive.

Thou wilt not give him to the will
Of foes that seek to do him ill.
When laid up­on the bed of pain,
The Lord with strength will him sus­tain.

On him Thou wilt com­pas­sion take,
And all his bed in sick­ness make.
I said, Lord, pity, heal Thou me,
Because I have of­fend­ed Thee.

My foes speak ill of me, they say,
When shall he die? his name de­cay?
If see­ing me, his speech is vain;
His heart hoards ills to tell again.

All those who hate me, whis­per lies,
Against me hurt­ful things de­vise:
Now his dis­ease, say they, is sore,
It binds him fast, he’ll rise no more.

Yea, e’en my own fa­mil­iar friend,
The man on whom I did de­pend,
Who ate my bread, pre­tend­ing zeal,
Against me lift­ed up his heel.

In mer­cy raise me up, O Lord,
To ren­der foes a due re­ward.
By this I know Thy love re­mains,
Because my foe no tri­umph gains.

Thou dost my steps di­rect aright,
And set me ev­er in Thy sight.
Let Is­ra­el’s God, Je­ho­vah, then
Be ev­er blest. Amen, amen.