1 Against a wicked race, O God,
plead thou my cause, judge me;
from the unjust and crafty men
O do thou set me free.
2 For thou the God art of my strength;
why thrust me then away?
And for the oppression of the foe
why mourn I all the day?
3 O send thy light forth and thy truth;
let them be guides to me,
and bring me to thine holy hill,
even where thy dwellings be.
4 Then will I to God's altar go,
to God my chiefest joy
yea, God, my God, thy name to praise
my harp I will employ.
5 Why art thou then cast down, my soul?
What should discourage thee?
And why with vexing thoughts art thou
disquieted in me?
Still trust in God; for him to praise
good cause I yet shall have:
he of my countenance is the health,
my God that doth me save.