Psalm 42

To the chief Musician, Maschil, for the sons of Korah.

1        Like as the hart for water-brooks

                   in thirst doth pant and bray;

          So pants my longing soul, O God,

                   that come to thee I may.

2        My soul for God, the living God,

                   doth thirst: when shall I near

          Unto thy countenance approach,

                   and in God's sight appear?

3        My tears have unto me been meat,

                   both in the night and day,

          While unto me continually,

                   Where is thy God? they say.

4        My soul is poured out in me,

                   when this I think upon;

          Because that with the multitude

                   I heretofore had gone:

          With them into God's house I went,

                   with voice of joy and praise;

          Yea, with the multitude that kept

                   the solemn holy days.

5        O why art thou cast down, my soul?

                   why in me so dismay'd?

          Trust God, for I shall praise him yet,

                   his count'nance is mine aid.

6        My God, my soul's cast down in me;

                   thee therefore mind I will

          From Jordan's land, the Hermonites,

                   and ev'n from Mizar hill.

7        At the noise of thy waterspouts

                   deep unto deep doth call;

          Thy breaking waves pass over me,

                   yea, and thy billows all.

8        His lovingkindness yet the Lord

                   command will in the day,

          His song's with me by night; to God,

                   by whom I live, I'll pray:

9        And I will say to God my rock,

                   Why me forgett'st thou so?

          Why, for my foes' oppression,

                   thus mourning do I go?

10      'Tis as a sword within my bones,

                   when my foes me upbraid;

          Ev'n when by them, Where is thy God?

                   'tis daily to me said.

11      O why art thou cast down, my soul?

                   why, thus with grief opprest,

          Art thou disquieted in me?

                   in God still hope and rest:

          For yet I know I shall him praise,

                   who graciously to me

          The health is of my countenance,

                   yea, mine own God is he.