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.
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.