Rotherham(i)
2 Wilt thou hide me, From the conclave of evil–doers, From the crowd of workers of iniquity.
3 Who have sharpened, like a sword, their tongue, Have made ready their arrow––a bitter word;
4 To shoot, in secret places, at the blameless one, Suddenly they shoot at him, and fear not.
5 They strengthen for them a wicked word, They talk of hiding snares, They have said, Who can see them?