To the Chief Musician. A Melody of David.1 Hear, O God, my voice when I complain, From dread peril by the foe, wilt thou guard my life. 2 Wilt thou hide me, From the conclave of evil-doers, From the crowd of workers of iniquity. 3 Who have sharpened, like a sword, their tongue, Have made ready their arrow—a bitter word; 4 To shoot, in secret places, at the blameless one, Suddenly they shoot at him, and fear not. 5 They strengthen for them a wicked word, They talk of hiding snares, They have said, Who can see them? 6 They devise perverse things, They have completed the device well devised, Both the intent of each one, and the mind, are unsearchable. 7 Once let God have shot at them an arrow, Suddenly have appeared their own wounds! 8 When they were to have ruined another, their tongue smote themselves, All who observe them take flight. 9 Therefore have all men feared,—And have told the doing of God, And, his work, have considered. 10 The righteous man shall rejoice Yahweh, and seek refuge in him, Then shall glory—all who are upright in heart.
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