1 O God, the heathen have attacked your holy land, your house of prayer; your city they have left a wreck, your servants dead and dying there, as if we had no God to help, no King's defence, no Father's care. 2 Lord, will your anger never cease? It overwhelms us like a flood, while unbelieving nations round deride our tears, our pain and blood. But will you let them mock your name and taunt us: 'Now where is your God?' 3 Lord, listen to the prisoners' groans, set free the slaves condemned to die; bring justice to this tortured world, and when you hear your people's cry we shall for ever give you thanks and sing your glory, God Most High!