From youth they’ve plowed my back, my foes’ cruel hand,
Yet they’ve not won, their chains could not endure.
The Lord is just, He cuts the wicked’s band,
Let Zion’s haters flee, their shame secure.
Like grass on housetops, withered ere it grows,
No reaper’s hand their stalks shall ever bind.
No passerby shall bless, as harvest shows,
“The Lord’s own peace on them,” no favor find.
imaginate.pro 