Classic Poem

My God, on Thee my hopes rely:
Why say they to my troubled soul,
Arise, up to your mountain fly;
Fly, quickly, like a chased fowl?

For lo! the wicked bend their bows,
Their arrows fit with secret art;
That closely they may shoot at those,
Who are upright and pure in heart.

If their foundation be destroy'd,
What can the righteous build upon?
God in His temple doth abide;
Heav'n is the Great Jehovah's throne.

His Eyes behold, His Eyelids try
The sons of men; allows the best:
But such as joy in cruelty
The Lord doth from His soul detest.

Snares, horrid tempest, brimstone, fire,
(Their portion) on their heads shall light;
Th' entirely just affects th' entire;
For ever precious in His sight.