Psalm XI

In God I put my trust,
Why then in scorn say ye,
To God for help as silly birds,
Unto your mountain flee?

The wicked bend their bow,
Their arrows they prepare,
That in the dark they may them shoot
At those that upright are.

If by their violence
Foundations be destroy'd,
What can the grieved righteous do
The ruins to avoid?

God in his Temple is;
The Lord's Throne is in Heaven;
His eyes behold, his eye-lids try
The sons of mortal men.

The Lord the just man tries,
But he the wicked hates;
And him that loveth violence
His soul abominates.

Snares, fire and brimstone he
On wicked men will rain:
This is the portion and the cup
That doth for them remain.

For the just Lord doth love
Just things as his delight,
And with a pleased countenance
Beholdeth the upright.