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Surely a limit boundeth every woe,

But mine enduring anguish hath no end;

My grievous years are spent in ceaseless flow,

My wound hath no amend.

O'erwhelmed, my helm doth fail, no hand is strong

To steer the bark to port, her longed-for aim.

How long, O Lord, wilt Thou my doom prolong?

When shall be heard the dove's sweet voice of song?

O leave us not to perish for our wrong,

Who bear Thy Name!

Wherefore wilt Thou forget us, Lord, for aye?

Mercy we crave!

O Lord, we hope in Thee alway,

Our King will save!

Wounded and crushed, beneath my load I sigh,

Despised and abject, outcast, trampled low;