To the choirmaster. A Maskil of the Sons of Korah. As a hart longs for flowing streams, so longs my soul for thee, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and behold the face of God?
My tears have been my food day and night, while men say to me continually, "Where is your God?"
These things I remember, as I pour out my soul: how I went with the throng, and led them in procession to the house of God, with glad shouts and songs of thanksgiving, a multitude keeping festival.
Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my help
and my God. My soul is cast down within me, therefore I remember thee from the land of Jordan and of Hermon, from Mount Mizar.
Deep calls to deep at the thunder of thy cataracts; all thy waves and thy billows have gone over me.
By day the LORD commands his steadfast love; and at night his song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life.
I say to God, my rock: "Why hast thou forgotten me? Why go I mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?"