O God, whom I in praise ad­ore,
Be si­lent in my cause no more;
Their mouths the wick­ed op­en wide;
Against me hy­p­ocrites have lied.

With words of hate they throng around,
And fight, al­though no cause be found;
My love pro­vokes their bit­ter spite,
But I in con­stant pray­er de­light.

With ev­il they my good re­ward,
With hat­red meet my kind re­gard;
Place him be­neath the wick­ed’s hand,
And on his right let Sa­tan stand.

In judg­ment let his plea be spurned,
And let his pray­er to sin be turned;
His days be few, and in his room
To of­fice let an­othe­r come.

A wi­dow let his wife be left,
His child­ren of their sire be­reft;
Let them be scat­tered far from home,
And begging bread through de­serts roam.

Extortioners his sub­stance take,
His toil a prey let strang­ers make;
Let him from none com­pas­sion know,
None to his or­phans fa­vor show.

His seed let per­ish in their shame,
The com­ing age blot out their name;
His fa­ther’s sin Je­ho­vah mind,
His mo­ther’s sin no par­don find.

Let them with God ne’er be for­got,
Till He from earth their me­mo­ry blot;
For he re­mem­bered not to show
Compassion to the sons of woe.

The poor and those with want dis­tressed
He per­se­cut­ed and op­pressed;
He them pur­sued to make his prey,
And brok­en-hear­ted ones to slay.

The curse he loved on him shall rest,
He, bless­ing not, shall not be blest,
Himself with curs­ing be ar­rayed,
To him shall curs­ing be re­paid.

In him like wa­ter it shall flow,
Like oil through all his bones shall go;
Like rai­ment it shall clothe him o’er,
A gir­dle bind­ing ev­er­more.

Foes and ac­cus­ers, from the Lord,
Shall find in curs­ing their r­eward,
But God the Lord, for Thy name’s sake,
For me in mer­cy un­der­take.

Because Thy grace is rich and free,
From all my foes de­liv­er me;
I’m poor and needy, grant re­lief,
My heart with­in is pierced with grief.

Like lo­cust tossed, like fleet­ing shade,
My days to pass away are made;
Through many fasts my strength de­clines,
My knees are weak, my bo­dy pines.

To foes a vile re­proach I’m made,
On me they look and shake the head;
O Lord, my God, my help­er be,
In Thy great mer­cy save Thou me.

That this to them, Lord, may be known,
Has by Thy migh­ty arm been done;
They curse, but let their curse be vain,
Thy bless­ing, Lord, let me ob­tain.

When they arise shamed let them be,
But make Thy ser­vant glad in Thee;
Let foes be covered with dis­grace,
And man­tle o’er with shame their face.

My mouth shall great­ly praise the Lord,
Yea, with the throng His praise r­ecord,
For on the poor’s right hand shall He
Stand up, his soul from wrong to free.