Hold your peace! 

 Even tho' He slay me I will trust in Him 

 For He is my salvation, He alone; 

 At whose dread throne no hypocrite shall dare 

 To stand, or answer. 

 Man, of woman born 

 Is of few days, and full of misery. 

 Forth like a flower he comes, and is cut down, 

 He fleeth like a shadow. What is man 

 That God regardeth him? The forest tree 

 Fell'd by the woodman may have hope to live 

 And sprout again, and thro' the blessed touch 

 Of waters at the root put forth new buds 

 And tender branches like a plant. But man 

 Shorn of his strength, doth waste away and die, 

 He giveth up the ghost and where is he? 

 As slides the mountain from its heaving base 

 Hurling its masses o'er the startled vale, 

 As the rent rock resumes its place no more, 

 As the departed waters leave no trace 

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