(To the choir-master. Over the octave. A psalm. Of David.)

Lord, come to my rescue; piety is dead; in a base world, true hearts have grown rare.

None but exchanges empty forms of speech with his neighbour; everywhere false hearts and treacherous lips.

Those treacherous lips, that tongue with high-sounding phrases; Lord, rid the earth of them!

With our tongues, they say, we can do great things; our lips are good friends to us; we own no master.

Now, says the Lord, I will bestir myself, on behalf of the helpless who are so ill used, of the poor who cry out so bitterly; I will win them the redress they long for.

The promises of the Lord are true metal, like silver that is tested in the crucible, the stains of earth gone, seven times refined.

Yes, Lord, thou wilt watch over us, and keep us ever safe from these evil days.

See how the wicked come and go all around us, how they rise to greatness, this base breed of men!