Psalm 11

My God, on Thee my hopes relie:
Why say they to my troubled Soule,
Arise, up to your Mountaine flie;
Flie quickely, like a chaced Foule?
For loe, the wicked bend their bowes,
Their arrowes fitt with secret Art;
That closely they may shoot at those,
Who are upright and pure in heart.
If their foundation be destroy'd,
What can the Righteous build upon?
God in his Temple doth abide;
Heaven is the great Jehovah's Throne.
His Eyes behold, his Eye-lids trie
The Sonnes of men; allowes the best:
But such as joy in crueltie
The Lord doth from his Soule detest.
Snares, horrid Tempest, Brimstone, Fire
(Their portion) on their heads shall light:
Th'intirely Just affects th'Intire;
For ever precious in his sight.