The poem
My soul is sad, and much dismay'd; See, Lord, what legions of my foes, With fierce Apollyon at their head, My heavenly pilgrimage oppose.
See, from the ever-burning lake, How like a smoky cloud they rise! With horrid blasts my soul they shake, With storms of blasphemies and lies.
Their fiery arrows reach the mark, My throbbing heart with anguish tear; Each lights upon a kindred spark, And finds abundant fuel there.
I hate the thought that wrongs the Lord; Oh! I would drive it from my breast, With Thy own sharp two-edged sword, Far as the east is from the west.
Come, then, and chase the cruel host, Heal the deep wounds I have received! Nor let the power of darkness boast That I am foil'd, and Thou art grieved!