Gird up now thy loins like a man. My tongue
is the pen of a ready writer.
My soul thirsteth for thee,
my flesh longeth for thee
in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is.
Thou has the dew of thy youth: wine
that maketh glad the heart of a man.
We spend our years as a tale that is told.
We take sweet counsel together.

My times are in thy hand.
Cleanse thou me from secret faults.
Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.
Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide
me under the shadow of thy wing.
For thine arrow sticks fast in me, and thy hand
presseth me sore. I will both lay me down
in peace and flee as a bird
to your mountain.