God, are you avoiding me? Where are you when I need you?
Full of hot air, the wicked are hot on the trail of the poor. Trip them up, tangle them up in their fine-tuned plots.
The wicked are windbags, the swindlers have foul breath.
The wicked snub God, their noses stuck high in the air. Their graffiti are scrawled on the walls: "Catch us if you can!" "God is dead."
They care nothing for what you think; if you get in their way, they blow you off.
They live (they think) a charmed life: "We can't go wrong. This is our lucky year!"
They carry a mouthful of hexes, their tongues spit venom like adders.
They hide behind ordinary people, then pounce on their victims.
They mark the luckless, then wait like a hunter in a blind; When the poor wretch wanders too close, they stab him in the back.
The hapless fool is kicked to the ground, the unlucky victim is brutally axed.
He thinks God has dumped him, he's sure that God is indifferent to his plight.
Time to get up, God - get moving. The luckless think they're Godforsaken.
They wonder why the wicked scorn God and get away with it, Why the wicked are so cocksure they'll never come up for audit.
But you know all about it - the contempt, the abuse. I dare to believe that the luckless will get lucky someday in you. You won't let them down: orphans won't be orphans forever.
Break the wicked right arms, break all the evil left arms. Search and destroy every sign of crime.
God's grace and order wins; godlessness loses.
The victim's faint pulse picks up; the hearts of the hopeless pump red blood as you put your ear to their lips.
Orphans get parents, the homeless get homes. The reign of terror is over, the rule of the gang lords is ended.