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!