Listen and help, O God. I'm reduced to a whine
And a whimper, obsessed
with feelings of doomsday. 2 Don't let them find me -
the conspirators out to get me,
Using their tongues as weapons,
flinging poison words,
They shoot from ambush,
shoot without warning,
not caring who they hit.
They keep fit doing calisthenics
of evil purpose,
They keep lists of the traps
they've secretly set.
They say to each other,
"No one can catch us,
no one can detect our perfect crime."
The Detective detects the mystery
in the dark of the cellar heart.
The God of the Arrow shoots!
They double up in pain,
Fall flat on their faces
in full view of the grinning crowd. 9 Everyone sees it. God's
work is the talk of the town.
Be glad, good people! Fly to God!
Good-hearted people, make praise your habit.