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To the chiefe Musician a psalme of David.
1 I In the Lord do trust; how then to my soule doe ye say, as doth a litle bird unto your mountaine flye away?
2 For loe, the wicked bend their bow, their arrows they prepare on string: to shoot in dark at them in heart that upright are.
3 If that the firme foundationes, utterly ruin’d bee: as for the man that righteous is, what then performe can hee?
4 The Lord in’s holy temple is, the Lords throne in heaven: his eyes will view, and his eye lids will prove the Sonnes of men.
5 The man that truly-righteous is ev’n him the Lord will prove: his soule they wicked hates, & him that violence doth love.
6 Snares, fire, & brimstone he will raine, ungodly men upon: and burning tempest; of their cup shall-be their portion.
7 For Iehovah that righteous is, all righteousnesse doth love: his countenane the upright one beholding, doth approve.
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