My wounds do stink, and are corrupt; my folly makes it so.
Lord, thou my folly know'st, my sins not cover'd are from thee.
For a disease that loathsome is so fills my loins with pain, That in my weak and weary flesh no soundness doth remain.
When as I did refrain my speech, and silent was my tongue, My bones then waxed old, because I roared all day long.
Be pleased, Lord, to rescue me; Lord, hasten to mine aid.
Bless'd is the man whom thou dost chuse, and mak'st approach to thee, That he within thy courts, O Lord, may still a dweller be: We surely shall be satisfy'd with thy abundant grace, And with the goodness of thy house, ev'n of thy holy place.