Psalms

Chapter 11 of 150

1To the chief Musician, A Psalm of David. In the LORD put I my trust: how say ye to my soul, Flee as a bird to your mountain?

2For, lo, the wicked bend their bow, they make ready their arrow upon the string, that they may privily shoot at the upright in heart.

3If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do?

4The LORD is in his holy temple, the LORD’s throne is in heaven: his eyes behold, his eyelids try, the children of men.

5The LORD trieth the righteous: but the wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth.

6Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and an horrible tempest: this shall be the portion of their cup.

7For the righteous LORD loveth righteousness; his countenance doth behold the upright.

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