To the Overseer, on `The Hind of the Morning.' -- A Psalm of David. My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me? Far from my salvation, The words of my roaring?
Yea, they have not been planted, Yea, they have not been sown, Yea, not taking root in the earth is their stock, And also He hath blown upon them, and they wither, And a whirlwind as stubble taketh them away.
Who stirred up from the east a righteous one? He calleth him to His foot, He giveth before him nations, And kings He causeth him to rule, He giveth `them' as dust `to' his sword, As driven stubble `to' his bow.
whose fan `is' in his hand, and he will thoroughly cleanse his floor, and will gather his wheat to the storehouse, but the chaff he will burn with fire unquenchable.'