641 Listen and help, O God. I'm reduced to a whine And a whimper, obsessed with feelings of doomsday. 2 Don't let them find me - the conspirators out to get me, 3 Using their tongues as weapons, flinging poison words, poison-tipped arrow-words. 4 They shoot from ambush, shoot without warning, not caring who they hit. 5 They keep fit doing calisthenics of evil purpose, They keep lists of the traps they've secretly set. They say to each other, "No one can catch us, 6 no one can detect our perfect crime." The Detective detects the mystery in the dark of the cellar heart.
7 The God of the Arrow shoots! They double up in pain, 8 Fall flat on their faces in full view of the grinning crowd. 9 Everyone sees it. God's work is the talk of the town. 10 Be glad, good people! Fly to God! Good-hearted people, make praise your habit.
