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And cry before the Lord

For thresholds waste,

For thresholds waste;

Cry for thy little ones

Slain of the sword;

Lift up thine hands to Him,

To Him implored.

Rejoice not, O mine enemy, o'er my pain,

O'er the destruction that hath come to me,

For though I fall I shall arise again;

The Lord yet helpeth me; yea, even He

Who scattered, in His burning wrath, His flock,

Shall gather me once more within His fold;

He shall deliver me from thee; my Rock

Shall free His servant to thy bondage sold.

Then unto thee shall pass the brimming bowl,

The cup whose bitterness hath filled my soul.