(To the choir-master. A maskil. Of the sons of Core.)

O God, my whole soul longs for thee, as a deer for running water;

my whole soul thirsts for God, the living God; shall I never again make my pilgrimage into God’s presence?

Morning and evening, my diet still of tears! Daily I must listen to the taunt, Where is thy God now?

Memories come back to me yet, melting the heart; how once I would join with the throng, leading the way to God’s house, amid cries of joy and thanksgiving, and all the bustle of holiday.

Soul, art thou still downcast? Wilt thou never be at peace? Wait for God’s help; I will not cease to cry out in thankfulness, My champion and my God.

In my sad mood I will think of thee, here in this land of Jordan and Hermon, here on Misar mountain.

One depth makes answer to another✻ amid the roar of the floods thou sendest; wave after wave, crest after crest overwhelms me.

Would he but lighten the day with his mercy, what praise would I sing at evening to the Lord God who is life for me!

Thou art my stronghold, I cry out to him still; hast thou never a thought for me? Must I go mourning, with enemies pressing me hard;

racked by the ceaseless taunts of my persecutors, Where is thy God now?

Soul, art thou still downcast? Wilt thou never be at peace? Wait for God’s help; I will not cease to cry out in thankfulness, My champion and my God.