Blessed be the LORDE my refuge, which teacheth my hades to warre, & my fyngers to fight.

My hope and my castell, my defence and my delyuerer, my shylde in whom I trust, which gouerneth the people that is vnder me.

LORDE, what is ma, that thou hast soch respecte vnto him? Or the sonne of man, that thou so regardest him?

Man is like a thinge of naught, his tyme passeth awaye like a shadowe.

Bowe thy heaues (o LORDE) & come downe, touch the mountaynes, yt they maye smoke withall.

Sende forth the lightenynge & scater the, shute out thine arowes and consume them.

Sende downe thine hande from aboue, delyuer me and take me out of ye greate waters, from the hande of straunge childre.

Whose mouth talketh of vanite, & their right hade is a righthande of falsede.

That I maye synge a new songe vnto the (o God) & synge prayses vnto the vpon a tenstrynged lute,

Thou that geuest victory vnto kynges, and hast delyuered Dauid thy seruaunt from the parell of the swerde.

Saue me and delyuer me from the honde of straunge childre, whose mouth talketh of vanite, and their right hande is a right hande of falsede.

That or sonnes maye growe vp as the yoge plantes, and that oure doughters maye be as the polished corners of the temple.

That or garners maye be full and plenteous with all maner of stoare: that or shepe maye brynge forth thousandes and hundreth thousands in oure villages.

That oure oxen maye be stronge to laboure, that there be no myschaunce, no decaye, and no complayninge in oure stretes.

Happie are the people that be in soch a case: yee blessed are the people, which haue the LORDE for their God.