Psalms.
Chapter 11.
To the chief Musician, A Psalm of David. In the Lord put I my trust: How say ye to my soul, Flee as a bird to your mountain? 
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. 
If the foundations be destroyed, What can the righteous do? 
The Lord is in his holy temple, The Lord’s throne is in heaven: His eyes behold, His eyelids try, the children of men. 
The Lord trieth the righteous: But the wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth. 
Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, And a horrible tempest: this shall be the portion of their cup. 
For the righteous Lord loveth righteousness; His countenance doth behold the upright. 
