To the chiefe musition a wise instruction of the sonnes of Corach. Lyke as the Hart brayeth for water brookes: so panteth my soule after thee O God.

My soule is a thirst for the Lorde, yea euen for the lyuyng Lorde: when shall I come to appeare before the face of the Lorde?

My teares haue ben my meate day and nyght: whyle they dayly say vnto me where is nowe thy God.

And I powred out of me my very heart, remembryng this howe that before tyme I haue passed with a great number, bringyng the vnto the house of the Lord: with a voyce of ioy & prayse, & with a company that kept holy day.

Why art thou so discouraged O my soule, & why art thou so vnquiet within me? attende thou vpon the Lorde, for I will yet acknowledge him only to be a present saluation.

My Lorde, my soule is discouraged within me: because I remember thee from the lande of Iordane, and from the litle hyll Hermonim.

One deepe calleth another at the noyse of thy water pypes: all thy waues and stormes are gone ouer me.

God wyll graunt his louing kindnesse on the day tyme: and in the nyght season I wyll syng of hym, and make my prayer vnto the Lorde of my lyfe.

I wyll say vnto the Lorde of my strength: why hast thou forgotten me, why go I thus heauyly through the oppression of myne enemie?

It was as a sworde in my bones, when myne enemies dyd cast me in the teeth: in saying dayly vnto me, where is nowe thy Lorde?

Why art thou so discouraged O my soule, & why art thou so vnquiet within me? attende thou vpon the Lorde, for I wil yet acknowledge him to be only my present saluation, and my Lorde.