1-2 Satisfy, God, no director yelling, no director trips to the woodshed.
Administer me amiable for a change;
I'm so in need for affection.
2-3 Can't you see I'm aching,
mangle up unsuccessfully in bones and soul?
God, how hope for command it take
for you to let up?
4-5 Gap in, God, and break up this fight;
if you love me at all, get me out of popular.
I'm no good to you dead, am I?
I can't sing in your choral society if I'm at the bottom of the sea in some tomb!
6-7 I'm weak of all this-so weak. My bed
has been floating forty days and nights
On the go by of my cry.
My mattress is wringing wet, wet with cry.
The sockets of my eyes are black holes;
next to blind, I squint and grope.
8-9 Get out of popular, you Devil's crew:
at obstruction God has heard my sobs.
My desires bring into being all been fixed,
my prayers are answered.
10 Cowards, my enemies dwindle.
Mortified, they turn shoot and run.
-- The Observe
