Ev'n free among the dead, like them that slain in grave do lie; Cut off from thy hand, whom no more thou hast in memory.
For from thine eyes cut off I am, I in my haste had said; My voice yet heard'st thou, when to thee with cries my moan I made.
In our low state who on us thought: for he hath mercy ever.
The dreadful fierceness of thy wrath quite over me doth go: Thy terrors great have cut me off, they did pursue me so.
Ev'n so I am forgot, As men are out of mind when dead: I'm like a broken pot.
To thee I'll cry, O Lord, my rock; hold not thy peace to me; Lest like those that to pit descend I by thy silence be.