My God, my God, must you forsake my days,
When countless nights have heard me weep your name?
Yet you are lifted on a throne of praise
Above this worm deserving only shame.
For though I hoped your hold would not relax,
Like water am I poured upon the dust
My bones disjointed and my heart like wax
Has melted from my shameful loss of trust.
My swollen tongue has dried like pottery
From crying out to you with dusty breath,
For packs of villains have surrounded me
With mockery upon their lips and death.
But if you cast your eye upon me, Lord,
Look not away but save me from the sword!