1 Hear, O God, my voice when I complain, From dread peril by the foe, wilt thou guard my life.
2 Wilt thou hide me, From the conclave of evil-doers, From the crowd of workers of iniquity.
3 Who have sharpened, like a sword, their tongue, Have made ready their arrow - a bitter word;
4 To shoot, in secret places, at the blameless one, Suddenly they shoot at him, and fear not.
5 They strengthen for them a wicked word, They talk of hiding snares, They have said, Who can see them?
6 They devise perverse things, They have completed the device well devised, Both the intent of each one, and the mind, are unsearchable.