I go about in sunless gloom; I stand up in the assembly and cry for help.
Even when I cry out, ‘Violence!’ I am not answered; I call aloud, but there is no justice.
My lyre is turned to mourning and my pipe to the voice of those who weep.
I am utterly bowed down and prostrate; all day long I go around mourning.
I say to God, my rock, “Why have you forgotten me? Why must I walk about mournfully because the enemy oppresses me?”
For you are the God in whom I take refuge; why have you cast me off? Why must I walk about mournfully because of the oppression of the enemy?