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Psalm 6
Biblical translations
English paraphrases
- In finem, in carminibus. Psalmus David. Pro octava.
- Domine, ne in furore tuo arguas me, neque in ira tua corripias me.
- Miserere mei, Domine, quoniam infirmus sum; sana me, Domine, quoniam conturbata sunt ossa mea.
- Et anima mea turbata est valde; sed tu, Domine, usquequo?
- Convertere, Domine, et eripe animam meam; salvum me fac propter misericordiam tuam.
- Quoniam non est in morte qui memor sit tui; in inferno autem quis confitebitur tibi?
- Laboravi in gemitu meo; lavabo per singulas noctes lectum meum: lacrimis meis stratum meum rigabo.
- Turbatus est a furore oculus meus; inveteravi inter omnes inimicos meos.
- Discedite a me omnes qui operamini iniquitatem, quoniam exaudivit Dominus vocem fletus mei.
- Exaudivit Dominus deprecationem meam; Dominus orationem meam suscepit.
- Erubescant, et conturbentur vehementer, omnes inimici mei; convertantur, et erubescant valde velociter.
Lord in thi wodnes argu me noght; na in thi ire amend me.
Wodness or ire is a stirynge of mannys will, excitand to vengaunce. the whilk stirynge is neuermare in god. bot the wodnes of him standis for gret ire. that is rightwis dome. when he sall be seen til ill men as wrethid & as wode. for men sais of a man that sparis noght, he faris as a woedman. as wha say. Lord in thi dome argu me noght. that is sett noght swilk skilles agayns me that i. be conuycte and worthi dampnacioun. for arguynge is to ouer come a nother with skilles: na in thi wreth amend me or chasti me, bot hele me here. with pyne & penaunce, that i be noght thare nouthere argued ne chastid. If i be made hale here, me thare noght dred ded, ne the hand of the leche brennand or sherand. The seuen psalmes of the whilk this is the first. bygynnys all in sorowand gretynge and bitternes of forthynkynge, & thai end in certaynte of pardoun. And thai ere seuen, that we wit that thurgh the seuen giftis of the haly gast all synne may be doen away, that is wroght in seuen dayes of this lif. And alswa for thare is seuen maners of remyssioun of synn. baptem. almus dede. Martirdome.
- The title of the sixte salm. To the ouercomere in salmes, the salm of Dauid, on the eiythe.
- Lord, repreue thou not me in thi stronge veniaunce; nether chastice thou me in thin ire.
- Lord, haue thou merci on me, for Y am sijk; Lord, make thou me hool, for alle my boonys ben troblid.
- And my soule is troblid greetli; but thou, Lord, hou long?
- Lord, be thou conuertid, and delyuere my soule; make thou me saaf, for thi merci.
- For noon is in deeth, which is myndful of thee; but in helle who schal knouleche to thee?
- I traueilide in my weilyng, Y schal waische my bed bi ech nyyt; Y schal moiste, ether make weet, my bedstre with my teeris.
- Myn iye is disturblid of woodnesse; Y waxe eld among alle myn enemyes.
- Alle ye that worchen wickidnesse, departe fro me; for the Lord hath herd the vois of my wepyng.
- The Lord hath herd my bisechyng; the Lord hath resseyued my preier.
- Alle my enemyes be aschamed, and be disturblid greetli; be thei turned togidere, and be thei aschamed ful swiftli.
- Oh LORDE, rebuke me not in thine anger: Oh chaste me not in thy heuy displeasure.
- Haue mercy vpon me (o LORDE) for I am weake: o LORDE heale me, for all my bones are vexed.
- My soule also is in greate trouble, but LORDE how longe?
- Turne the (o LORDE) & delyuer my soule: Oh saue me, for thy mercies sake.
- For in death no man remebreth the: Oh who wil geue the thankes in the hell?
- I am weery of gronynge: Euery night wasshe I my bedde, & water my couche with my teares.
- My coutenauce is chaunged for very inwarde grefe, I cosume awaye, I haue so many enemies.
- Awaye fro me all ye wicked doers, for the LORDE hath herde the voyce off my wepinge.
- The LORDE hath herde myne humble peticio, the LORDE hath receaued my prayer.
- All myne enemies shalbe cofounded & sore vexed: yee they shalbe turned backe and put to shame, and that right soone.
- To him that excelleth on Neginoth vpon the eight tune. A Psalme of Dauid.
- O lord, rebuke me not in thine anger, neither chastise me in thy wrath.
- Haue mercie vpon me, O Lorde, for I am weake: O Lord heale me, for my bones are vexed.
- My soule is also sore troubled: but Lorde how long wilt thou delay?
- Returne, O Lord: deliuer my soule: saue me for thy mercies sake.
- For in death there is no remembrance of thee: in the graue who shall prayse thee?
- I fainted in my mourning: I cause my bed euery night to swimme, and water my couch with my teares.
- Mine eye is dimmed for despight, and sunke in because of all mine enemies.
- Away from mee all ye workers of iniquitie: for the Lorde hath heard the voyce of my weeping.
- The Lord hath heard my petition: the Lord will receiue my prayer.
- All mine enemies shall be confounded and sore vexed: they shall be turned backe, and put to shame suddenly.
- Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger;
do not punish me in your wrath
- Have pity on me, Lord, for I am weak;
heal me, Lord, for my bones are racked
- My spirit shakes with terror;
how long, O Lord, how long
- Turn, O Lord, and deliver me;
save me for your mercys sake.
- For in death no one remembers you;
and who will give you thanks in the grave
- I grow weary because of my groaning;
every night I drench my be and flood my couch with tears.
- My eyes are wasted with grief
and worn away because of all my enemies
- Depart from me, all evildoers,
for the Lord has heard the sound of my weeping
- The Lord has heard my supplication;
the Lord accepts my prayer
- All my enemies shall be confounded and quake with fear;
they shall turn back and suddenly be put to shame.
- Unto the end, in verses, a psalm for David, for the octave.
- O Lord, rebuke me not in thy indignation, nor chastise me in thy wrath.
- Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I am weak: heal me, O Lord, for my bones are troubled.
- And my soul is troubled exceedingly: but thou, O Lord, how long?
- Turn ot me, O Lord, and deliver my soul: O save me for thy mercy’s sake.
- For there is no one indeath, that is mindful
of thee: and who shall confess to thee in hell?
- I have laboured in my groanings, every night I will wash my bed: I will water my couch with my tears.
- My eye is troubled through indignation: I have grown old amongst all my enemies.
- Depart from em, all ye workers of iniquity: for the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping.
- The Lord hath heard my supplication: the Lord hath received my prayer.
- Let all my enemies be ashamed, and be very much troubled: let them be turned back, and be ashamed very speedily.
- To the chiefe musician on Neginoth vpon Sheminith, A Psalme of Dauid.: O Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger, neither chasten me in thy hot displeasure.
- Haue mercy vpon me, O Lord, for I am weake: O Lord heale mee, for my bones are vexed.
- My soule is also sore vexed: but thou, O Lord, how long?
- Returne, O Lord, deliuer my soule: oh saue mee, for thy mercies sake.
- For in death there is no remembrance of thee: in the graue who shall giue thee thankes?
- I am weary with my groning, all the night make I my bed to swim: I water my couch with my teares.
- Mine eie is consumed because of griefe; it waxeth olde because of all mine enemies.
- Depart from me, all yee workers of iniquitie: for the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping.
- The Lord hath heard my supplication; the Lord will receiue my prayer.
- Let all mine enemies be ashamed and sore vexed: let them returne and be ashamed suddainly.
2. DOMINE, ne in furore tuo arguas me: neque in ira tua corripias me.
LORD! will thou noȝt me schame ne schende,
Whan thou schalt be in thi fersnesse,
To dredfull dome whan I schal wende?
Helde noȝt thi wretthe on my frealnessse,
Thi derworthi childeryn whan thou schalt blesse,
And bydde hem come to blysse with thé:
Mi synfull werkys more and lesse,
'Ne reminiscaris Domine!'
3. Miserere mei, Domine, quoniam infirmus sum: sana me, Domine, quoniam conturbata sunt omnia ossa mea.
Sythen thou woldyst no man were lost,
Have mercy on me, for I am seke.
Helĕ me, for my bonys are brost,
And rewe on alle that will be meke.
Thi pyté, Lord, encrese and eke,
To alle that wille repentaunt be,
And wille with sorweful hertĕ seke,
'Ne reminiscaris, Domine!'
4. Et anima mea turbata est valde: tu, Domine, usquequo?
My soule begynneth to tremble and qwake!
How longe schal it with dreed be schent?
Late noȝt thyn ymage be forsake,
Made with so good avysĕment.
Sythe man was made be full assent
Of the blyssed Trinité;
Thowȝ he do mys, and after repent,
'Ne reminiscaris, Domine!'
5. Convertere, Domine, et eripe animam meam: salvum me fac propter misericordiam tuam.
Turne thé, Lord, and tarye nowȝt,
Thin owen lyknes to helpe and save.
Delyvere hem alle that thou hast bought,
And graunte hem mercy that will it crave.
Thynke, thou madyst bothe kyng and knave:
Therfore of mercy be so fre,
That no man wante, that wille it have.
'Ne reminiscaris, Domine!'
6. Quoniam non est in morte qui memor sit tui: in inferno autem quis confitebitur tibi?
Whan man is seek, and nedys muste dye,
(As every man schal do be kynde,)
After mercy he kan noȝt crye,
For sykenes revyth hym his mynde.
Therfore, I rede, be noȝt be hynde,
Whil mercy is in gret plenté:
For in helle myȝt neverĕ man fynde
'Ne reminiscaris, Domine!'
7. Laboravi in gemitu meo: lavabo per singulas noctes lectum meum: lacrimis meis stratum meum rigabo.
My travayle is, bothe nyght and day,
To wepe and weylĕ for my synne:
With bittere terys I schal asay
To wassche the bed that I lye inne.
Whoso evere hevene will wynne,
In endeles blysse evere more to be,
This vers he mustĕ ofte begynne,
'Ne reminiscaris, Domine!'
8. Turbatus est a furore oculus meus: inveteravi inter omnes inimicos meos.
Myn eyin ben wexin al derke for drede;
My wickednes is drawyn on elde;
My soule is wrappyd in wofull wede,
For synne I have forsake ful selde.
Lord! fro sorwe and schame me schelde!
Myn helpe, myn hele, it lythe in thé!
Therfore I crye, in town and felde,
'Ne reminiscaris, Domine!'
9. Discedite a me omnes qui operamini iniquitatem: quoniam exaudivit Dominus vocem fletus mei.
Whan thou schalt deme bothe grete and smale,
That day we nedys muste abyde.
Fro Iosaphath, that gret vale,
There is no man that may hym hyde.
Thanne sette me, Lord, on thi ryȝt syde,
And cursede wretchys departe fro me.
Wepyng I preye, aȝens that tyde,
'Ne reminiscaris, Domine!'
10. Exaudivit Dominus deprecacionem meam: Do∣minus oracionem meam suscepit.
Whanne gode and ille here mede schal take,
As they ben worthi wo or wele,
Late me noȝt thannĕ be forsake;
Sythe I have lefte my synnĕs fele.
Suffere no feend me thanne apele,
Whanne the laste judgĕment schal be.
Late me be syker, whil I have hele,
Of 'Ne reminiscaris, Domine!'
11. Erubescant et conturbentur vehementer omnes ini∣mici mei: convertantur et erubescant valde velociter.
Whanne thei, that lyven aȝens thi lawe,
Schul be schent with open schame,
To thy mercy I wille me drawe,
And kepe my soulĕ oute of blame.
Thi mercy, Lord, I muste ataine,
Whan myn enmyes dampnyd schul be:
For evere I crye, and seye the same,
'Ne reminiscaris, Domine!'
O LORD! since in my mouth thy mighty name
Suffereth itself, my Lord, to name and call,
Here hath my heart hope taken by the same;
That the repentance, which I have and shall,
May at thy hand seek mercy, as the thing
Of only comfort of wretched sinners all:
Whereby I dare with humble bemoaning,
By thy goodness, this thing of thee require:
Chastise me not for my deserving
According to thy just conceived ire.
O Lord! I dread: and that I did not dread
I me repent; and evermore desire
Thee Thee to dread. I open here, and spread
My fault to thee: but thou, for thy goodness,
Measure it not in largeness, nor in breade:
Punish it not as asketh the greatness
Of thy furor, provoked by mine offence.
Temper, O Lord, the harm of my excess,
With mending will, that I for recompense
Prepare again: and rather pity me;
For I am weak, and clean without defence;
More is the need I have of remedy.
For of the whole the leche taketh no cure;
The sheep that strayeth the shepherd seeks to see.
I, Lord, am stray’d; and, seke 2 without recure,
Feel all my limbs, that have rebelled, for fear
Shake in despair, unless thou me assure:
My flesh is troubled, my heart doth fear the spear.
That dread of death, of death that ever lasts,
Threateth of right, and draweth near and near.
Much more my soul is troubled by the blasts
Of these assaults, that come as thick as hail,
Of worldly vanities, that temptation casts
Against the bulwark of the fleshe frail.
Wherein the soul in great perplexity
Feeleth the senses with them that assail
Conspire, corrupt by pleasure and vanity:
Whereby the wretch doth to the shade resort
Of hope in Thee, in this extremity.
But thou, O Lord, how long after this sort
Forbearest thou to see my misery?
Suffer me yet, in hope of some comfort
Fear, and not feel that thou forgettest me.
Return, O Lord: O Lord, I thee beseech!
Unto thy old wonted benignity.
Reduce, revive my soul: be thou the leche;
And reconcile the great hatred, and strife,
That it hath ta’en against the flesh; the wretch
That stirred hath thy wrath by filthy life.
See how my soul doth fret it to the bones:
Inward remorse, so sharpeth it like a knife,
That but Thou help the caitiff, that bemoans
His great offence, it turneth anon to dust.
Here hath thy mercy matter for the nones;
For if thy righteous hand, that is so just,
Suffer no sin, or strike with dampnation,
Thy infinite mercy want nedes it must
Subject matter for his operation:
For that in death there is no memory
Among the dampned, nor yet no mention
Of thy great name, ground of all glory.
Then if I die, and go whereas I fear
To think thereon, how shall thy great mercy
Sound in my mouth unto the worldes ear?
For there is none, that can Thee laud, and love,
For that thou wilt no love among them there.
Suffer my cries the mercy for to move,
That wonted is a hundred years’ offence
In a moment of repentance to remove.
How oft have I called up with diligence
This slothful flesh long afore the day
For to confess his fault, and negligence;
That to the den, for aught that I could say,
Hath still returned to shrowd himself from cold?
Whereby it suffereth now for such delay,
By mighty pains, instead of pleasures old.
I wash my bed with tears continual
To dull my sight, that it be never bold
To stir my heart again to such a fall.
Thus dry I up, among my foes, in woe,
That with my fall do rise, and grow withal,
And me beset even now where I am, so
With secret traps, to trouble my penance.
Some do present to my weeping eyes, lo,
The cheer, the manner, beauty, or countenance
Of her, whose look, alas! did make me blind:
Some other offer to my remembrance
Those pleasant words, now bitter to my mind:
And some shew me the power of my armour,
Triumph, and conquest, and to my head assign’d
Double diadem: some shew the favour
Of people frail, palace, pomp, and riches.
To these mermaids, and their baits of error
I stop my ears, with help of thy goodness.
And for I feel, it cometh alone of Thee
That to my heart these foes have none access,
I dare them bid, Avoid, wretches, and flee;
The Lord hath heard the voice of my complaint;
Your engines take no more effect in me:
The Lord hath heard, I say, and seen me faint
Under your hand, and pitieth my distress.
He shall do make my senses, by constraint,
Obey the rule, that reason shall express:
Where the deceit of that your glosing bait
Made them usurp a power in all excess.
Shamed be they all, that so do lie in wait
To compass me, by missing of their prey!
Shame and rebuke redound to such deceit!
Sudden confusion, as stroke without delay,
Shall so deface their crafty suggestion,
That they to hurt my health no more assay
Since I, O Lord, remain in thy protection.
- Lorde checke thou not thy pore seruaunt in thine hasty furie:
Neyther correcte me in the heate of thy melancholye.
- Be mercyful to me (O Lorde) for I am de∣formed:
Heale thou me Lorde, because my bones are made sore abashed.
- But my soule is abashed sore: yea, & ryght sore troubled:
And thou (O Lorde) howe longe wilt thou se me so afflicted?
- Returne (O Lorde) set my soule cleare, saue me for thy mercye:
For in death and the graue there is, of the no memorye.
- In my sorowfull mornynge I am weryed oute ryght:
And with my teares my bed & couch I make to flowe al nyght.
- My face is wrynckled throughe anger, & indignacyon:
And it is made exceadinge olde, throughe myne enmyes eche one.
- Departe from me all ye that be worckers of wyckednes:
For the Lorde hathe hearde the voyce of my sorowfull dystresse.
- The Lorde hathe hearde hys seruauntes prayer and supplicacyon:
The Lorde hath receyued my suite, and mine oracyon.
- Let all myne enemies take shame, and be caste doune greatlye:
Let them be turned backe agayne, and take shame sodenlye.
Note: copied from David G. Jensen's edition of Parker's Whole Psaltery (license: CC-BY-NC-SA 4.0)
1. O carp not sour, thou Lord of power,
my sin in ire too sore,
nor chasten me in cru·elty;
I pray to thee therefore.
2. But mercy have, my life to save,
O Lord, for weak am I;
my bones be vex'd, with fear annex'd,
thy dooms make me to cry.
3. My soul also is full of woe,
my consci·ence doth quake;
O Lord, how long thy scourge so strong
shall me thus fearful make?
4. O Lord, return, thou seëst I mourn,
make free my soul to go;
oh save me now, thy grace avow;
thy glory stand'th thereto.
5. In death no man remember can
thy Name to celebrate;
what man thus bound thy praise can sound
in pit and Hell, too late?
6. Of groaning so I weary go
my bed, I nightly wash
my couch with tears; for sinful fear,
I water thus. Alas!
7. My beauty warm'th, my trouble stand'th,
mine eyes for thought be dim;
my zeal for wrath much maugre hath
amidst my foes so brim.
8. Avaunt, ye all, to you I call,
which work all vanity;
the Lord of Hosts hath heard your boasts,
and eke my weeping cry.
9. This Lord, I say, at needful day
hath heard my meek request;
from hence he will with mercy still
hear me, to give me rest.
10. Mine enemies, all hateful spies,
shall feel both shame and pain;
God's helping grace them all shall chase,
to flee swift back again.
1. LORD, let not me, a worme, by Thee be shent,
While Thou art in the heat
of Thy displeasure;
Ne let Thy rage of my due punishment
Become the measure.
2. But mercy, Lord, let mercy Thyne descend,
For I am weake, and in my
weakness languish:
Lord, help, for even my bones their marrow spend
With cruel anguish.
3. Nay, ev'n my soul fell troubles do appall:
Alas! how long, my God, wilt
Thou delay me?
Turn Thee, sweet Lord, and from this ougly fall,
My deare God, stay me.
4. Mercy, O mercy, Lord, for mercy's sake,
For death dos kill the
witness of Thy glory;
Can of Thy prayse the tongues entombed make
A heavnly story?
5. Lo, I am tir'd, while still I sigh and groane:
My moystned bed proofes of
my sorrow showeth,
My bed, while I with black Night mourn alone,
With my teares floweth.
6. Woe, lyke a moth, my face's beauty eates,
And age, pul'd on with
paines, all freshness fretteth,
The while a swarm of foes with vexing feates
My life besetteth.
7. Get hence, you evill, who in my evill rejoyce,
In all whose workes vainess
is ever raigning,
For God hath heard the weeping sobbing voice
Of my complaining.
8. The Lord my suite did heare, and gently heare
They shall be sham'd and
vext that breed my crying,
And turn their backs, and strait on backs appeare
Their shamefull flying.
LORD in thine anger do not reprehend me
Nor in thy hot displeasure me correct;
Pity me Lord for I am much deject
Am very weak and faint; heal and amend me,
For all my bones, that even with anguish ake,
Are troubled, yea my soul is troubled sore;
And thou O Lord how long? turn Lord, restore
My soul, O save me for thy goodness sake
For in death no remembrance is of thee;
Who in the grave can celebrate thy praise?
Wearied I am with sighing out my dayes,
Nightly my Couch I make a kind of Sea;
My Bed I water with my tears; mine Eie
Through grief consumes, is waxen old and dark
Ith' mid'st of all mine enemies that mark.
Depart all ye that work iniquitie.
Depart from me, for the voice of my weeping
The Lord hath heard, the Lord hath heard my prai'r
My supplication with acceptance fair
The Lord will own, and have me in his keeping.
Mine enemies shall all be blank and dash't
With much confusion; then grow red with shame,
They shall return in hast the way they came
And in a moment shall be quite abash't.
Thy dreadful anger, Lord, restrain,
and spare a wretch forlorn;
Correct me not in thy fierce wrath,
too heavy to be borne.
Have mercy, Lord, for I grow faint,
unable to endure,
The anguish of my aching bones,
which thou alone can cure.
My tortured flesh distracts my mind,
and fills my soul with grief;
But, Lord, how long will thou delay
to grant me thy relief?
Thy wonted goodness, Lord, repeat,
and ease my troubled soul;
Lord, for thy wondrous mercy's sake
vouchsafe to make me whole.
For after death no more can I
thy glorious acts proclaim;
No pris'ner of the silent grave
can magnify thy name.
Quite tired with pain, with groaning faint,
no hope of ease I see;
The night, that quiets common griefs,
is spent in tears by me.
My beauty fades, my sight grows dim,
my eyes with weakness close;
Old age o'ertakes me, while I think
on my insulting foes.
Depart, you wicked, in my wrongs
you shall no more rejoice;
for god, I find, accepts my tears,
and listens to my voice.
He hears and grants my humble pray'r;
and they that wish my fall,
Shall blush and rage to see that God
protects me from them all.
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