(Alleluia.)

Praise the Lord; the Lord is gracious; sing to our God, a God who so claims our love; praise is his right.

The Lord is rebuilding Jerusalem, is calling the banished sons of Israel home;

he it is that heals the broken heart, and binds up its wounds.

Does he not know the number of the stars, and call each by its name?

How great a Lord is ours, how magnificent his strength, how inscrutable his wisdom!

The Lord is the defender of the oppressed, and lays the wicked low in the dust.

Strike up, then, in thanksgiving to the Lord, with the harp’s music praise our God;

the God who curtains heaven with cloud, and lays up a store of rain for the earth, who clothes the mountain-sides with grass, with corn for man’s need,

gives food to the cattle, food to the young ravens that cry out to him.

Not the well-mounted warrior is his choice, not the swift runner wins his favour;

the Lord’s favour is for those who fear him, and put their trust in his divine mercy.