Coverdale(i)
8 But now o LORDE, thou father of ours: we are the claye, and thou art oure potter, and we all are the worke of thy hondes.
9 Be not to sore displeased (o LORDE) and kepe not oure offences to loge in thy remembraunce, but considre that we all are thy people.
10 The cities of thy Sanctuary lye waist, Sion is a wildernesse, and Ierusalem a deserte.