Have pity on me, Lord, for I am weak; heal me, Lord, for my bones are shuddering.
They open their mouths against me, lions that rend and roar.
My loins burn with fever; there is no wholesomeness in my flesh.
It shatters my bones, when my adversaries reproach me, when they say to me every day: “Where is your God?”
Those times I recall as I pour out my soul, When I would cross over to the shrine of the Mighty One, to the house of God, Amid loud cries of thanksgiving, with the multitude keeping festival.
I remember. At night I ponder in my heart; and as I meditate, my spirit probes:
Be gracious to me, Lord; see how my foes afflict me! You alone can raise me from the gates of death.
Relent, O Lord! How long? Have pity on your servants!
One’s spirit supports one when ill, but a broken spirit who can bear?
Heal me, Lord, that I may be healed; save me, that I may be saved, for you are my praise.
Then he said to them, “My soul is sorrowful even to death. Remain here and keep watch with me.”
Will not God then secure the rights of his chosen ones who call out to him day and night? Will he be slow to answer them?
“I am troubled now. Yet what should I say? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? But it was for this purpose that I came to this hour.