Chapter 9

(To the choir-master. To the mood of the song, Mut Ladben. A psalm. Of David.)

Lord, I give thee all the thanks of my heart, recounting thy wonderful do-ings;

glad and triumphant in thee, I will sing psalms to thy name, O God most high.

See how my enemies turn back, how they faint and melt away at the sight of thee!

Thou hast given me redress and maintained my cause; thou art there on thy throne, seeing justice done.

Thou hast checked the heathen in their course; thou hast brought the wicked to nothing, blotting out their name for all time.

Spent is the enemy’s power, doomed to everlasting ruin; the memory of them has died with the fall of their cities.

But the Lord abides for ever on the throne of judgement he has prepared,

still judging the world rightly, still awarding each people its due;

the Lord is a stronghold to the oppressed, a stronghold in time of peril.

Those who acknowledge thy name, Lord, can trust in thee; never was man forsaken that had recourse to thee.

Sing, then, to the Lord, who dwells in Sion, tell the Gentiles of his great deeds;

how he, the avenger of blood, cares for the afflicted, does not forget them when they cry to him.

Have pity on me, Lord, look upon all that I suffer at my enemies’ hands;

thou who didst ever rescue me from the gate of death, to proclaim thy praises at the gate of thy loved Sion,

to exult in thy saving power. The heathen have been caught in their own deadly devices; their feet have been trapped in the very toils they had laid;

now it will be seen how the Lord defends the right, how the wicked contrive their own undoing.

To the place of death the wicked must return, heathens that have no thought of God.

He does not forget the helpless; their time will come; the patience of the afflicted will not go for nothing.

Bestir thyself, Lord, let not human strength prevail; let the heathen stand upon their trial before thee;

let the heathen, too, feel thy terrors, and learn they are but men. (Here, in the hebrew text, psalm 10 Begins.)

Lord,1 why dost thou stand far off? In days of affliction, why dost thou make no sign?

The hearts of the oppressed burn within them, so triumphant is the schemer that has entrapped them;

so proud of his wicked end achieved, still robbing men, blaspheming and despising the Lord.

God there is none to punish me, the sinner thinks in his pride, and makes that thought his rule;

still, as he goes on prospering, he banishes thy laws from his mind, and makes light of his enemies.

Endless time, he thinks, cannot shake his untroubled existence.

His mouth overflows with curses, and calumny, and deceit; his tongue is a storehouse of dissension and mischief.

Ambushed he lies at the village gate, to kill unawares the man who never wronged him;

his eyes are continually on his prey; like a lion in its lair, he watches from his hiding-place, to surprise his defenceless foe, safe in the net.

So he catches him in the toils; stands there bowing and scraping,2 till the prey falls by his onset.

Why not? he thinks to himself, God has forgotten about it; God still turns his face away, and sees nothing.

O Lord God, bestir thyself, lift up thy hand; do not forget the helpless.

Why is the sinner allowed to defy God, to think he will never exact punishment?

But in truth thou seest it; thou hast eyes for misery and distress, and wilt take them into thy keeping. The destitute are cast on no care but thine; to thee only the orphan looks for redress.

Break down the power of the wicked oppressor, punish his ill-doing, and let him be seen no more.

The Lord will reign for ever and ever, while you, the heathen, will vanish from the land he loves.

The sighing of the defenceless has found audience; thou wilt heed them and bring courage to their hearts,

wilt give redress to the fatherless and the persecuted; mortal man shall make himself feared no longer.