1God, are you avoiding me? Where are you when I need you?
2Full of hot air, the wicked are hot on the trail of the poor. Trip them up, tangle them up in their fine-tuned plots.
3The wicked are windbags, the swindlers have foul breath.
4The wicked snub God, their noses stuck high in the air. Their graffiti are scrawled on the walls: "Catch us if you can!" "God is dead."
5They care nothing for what you think; if you get in their way, they blow you off.
6They live (they think) a charmed life: "We can't go wrong. This is our lucky year!"
7They carry a mouthful of hexes, their tongues spit venom like adders.
8They hide behind ordinary people, then pounce on their victims.
9They mark the luckless, then wait like a hunter in a blind; When the poor wretch wanders too close, they stab him in the back.
10The hapless fool is kicked to the ground, the unlucky victim is brutally axed.
11He thinks God has dumped him, he's sure that God is indifferent to his plight.
12Time to get up, God—get moving. The luckless think they're Godforsaken.
13They wonder why the wicked scorn God and get away with it, Why the wicked are so cocksure they'll never come up for audit.
14But you know all about it— the contempt, the abuse. I dare to believe that the luckless will get lucky someday in you. You won't let them down: orphans won't be orphans forever.
15Break the wicked right arms, break all the evil left arms. Search and destroy every sign of crime.
16God's grace and order wins; godlessness loses.
17The victim's faint pulse picks up; the hearts of the hopeless pump red blood as you put your ear to their lips.
18Orphans get parents, the homeless get homes. The reign of terror is over, the rule of the gang lords is ended.