11
To the chief Musician, A Psalm of David.
1 In the Lord put I my trust:
How say ye to my soul,
Flee as a bird to your mountain?
2 For lo, the wicked bend their bow,
They make ready their arrow upon the string,
That they may privily shoot at the upright in heart.
3 If the foundations be destroyed,
What can the righteous do?
4 The Lord is in his holy temple,
The Lord’s throne is in heaven:
His eyes behold,
His eyelids try, the children of men.
5 The Lord trieth the righteous:
But the wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth.
6 Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone,
And a horrible tempest: this shall be the portion of their cup.
7 For the righteous Lord loveth righteousness;
His countenance doth behold the upright.