Psalms 50-51

Psalm 50

1 THE Lord, the Judge, before His throne, Bids the whole earth draw nigh, The nations near the rising sun, And near the western sky.

2 No more shall bold blasphemers say, "Judgment will ne'er begin;" No more abuse His long delay To impudence and sin.

3 Throned on a cloud our God shall come, Bright flames prepare His way:

Thunder and darkness, fire and storm, Lead on the dreadful day.

4 Heaven from above His call shall hear, Attending angels come, And earth and hell shall know and fear His justice and their doom.

Isaac Watts, 1719

Psalm 51 (1 of 4)

1 SHOW pity, Lord; O Lord, forgive;

Let a repenting rebel live: Are not Thy mercies large and free? May not a sinner trust in Thee?

2 My crimes are great, but don't surpass The power and glory of Thy grace:

Great God, Thy nature hath no bound, So let Thy pardoning love be found.

3 Oh wash my soul from every sin, And make my guilty conscience clean;

Here, on my heart, the burden lies, And past offences pain my eyes.

4 My lips, with shame, my sins confess Against. Thy law, against Thy grace:

Lord, should Thy judgment grow severe, I am condemn'd, but Thou art clear.

5 Should sudden vengeance seize my breath, I must pronounce Thee just in death;

And, if my soul were sent to hell, Thy righteous law approves it well.

6 Yet save a trembling sinner, Lord; Whose hope, still hovering round Thy word, Would light on some sweet promise there, Some sure support against despair.

Isaac Watts, 1719.

Psalm 51 (2 of 4)

1 LORD, I am vile, conceived in sin, And born unholy and unclean;

Sprung from the man whose guilty fall Corrupts the race, and taints us all.

2 Soon as we draw our infant breath, The seeds of sin grow up for death;

Thy law demands a perfect heart, But we're denied in every part.

3 Behold I fall before Thy face, My only refuge is Thy grace; No outward forms can make me clean; The leprosy lies deep within.

4 No bleeding bird, nor bleeding beast, Nor hyssop branch, nor sprinkling priest, Nor running brook, nor flood nor sea, Can wash the dismal stain away.

5 Jesus, my God! Thy blood alone Hath power sufficient to atone;

Thy blood can make me white as snow; No Jewish types could cleanse me so.

Isaac Watts, 1719.