Listen and help, O God. I'm reduced to a whine And a whimper, obsessed with feelings of doomsday.
Don't let them find me - the conspirators out to get me,
Using their tongues as weapons, flinging poison words, poison-tipped arrow-words.
They shoot from ambush, shoot without warning, not caring who they hit.
They keep fit doing calisthenics of evil purpose, They keep lists of the traps they've secretly set. They say to each other, "No one can catch us,
no one can detect our perfect crime." The Detective detects the mystery in the dark of the cellar heart.
The God of the Arrow shoots! They double up in pain,
Fall flat on their faces in full view of the grinning crowd.
Everyone sees it. God's work is the talk of the town.
Be glad, good people! Fly to God! Good-hearted people, make praise your habit.