Thou Mover of the rolling spheres,
I, through the glasses of my tears,
To Thee my eyes erect:
As servants mark the master's hands,
As maids their mistress's commands,
And liberty expect;

So we, depress'd by enemies,
And growing troubles, fix our eyes
On God, Who sits on high;
Till He in mercy shall descend
To give our miseries an end,
And turn our tears to joy.

O save us, Lord, by all forlorn,
The subject of contempt and scorn,
Defend us from their pride,
Who live in fluency and ease,
Who with our woes their malice please,
And miseries deride.