Psalm 109 to the tune of Wiltshire, as improved by Thomas Hardy

After a troubling psalm yesterday, another one today.  The worship "space" is always very important, and this liturgy is set in the Dree Mariners' Inn, one of the second-ranking of the inns of a south-western market town, and each member of the choir is provided with precisely one-half of a pint of the local ale.
I won't comment much except to say that it seems to me that Michael Henchard has a very firm understanding of the what the Psalmist meant, and that the choir could represent all of us who who regard some parts of the Psalms as not being meant for singing.
A view with which, I have to say, Hnaef tends to disagree.  His favourite being the 39th verse of the 106th psalm in the BCP - "Thus were they stained with their own works, * and went a whoring with their own inventions."

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"Hang Samuel Wakely's tune, as improved by thee!" said Henchard. "Chuck across one of your psalters—old Wiltshire is the only tune worth singing—the psalm-tune that would make my blood ebb and flow like the sea when I was a steady chap. I'll find some words to fit en."
He took one of the psalters and began turning over the leaves. Chancing to look out of the window at that moment he saw a flock of people passing by, and perceived them to be the congregation of the upper church, now just dismissed, their sermon having been a longer one than that the lower parish was favoured with.
Among the rest of the leading inhabitants walked Mr. Councillor Farfrae with Lucetta upon his arm, the observed and imitated of all the smaller tradesmen's womankind. Henchard's mouth changed a little, and he continued to turn over the leaves. "Now then," he said, "Psalm the Hundred-and-Ninth, to the tune of Wiltshire: verses ten to fifteen. I gi'e ye the words"

 "His seed shall orphans be, his wife
 A widow plunged in grief;
 His vagrant children beg their bread
 Where none can give relief.

 His ill-got riches shall be made
 To usurers a prey;
 The fruit of all his toil shall be
 By strangers borne away.

 None shall be found that to his wants
 Their mercy will extend,
 Or to his helpless orphan seed
 The least assistance lend.

 A swift destruction soon shall seize
 On his unhappy race;
 And the next age his hated name
 Shall utterly deface."

 "I know the Psa'am—I know the Psa'am!" said the leader hastily; "but I would as lief not sing it. 'Twasn't made for singing. We chose it once when the gipsy stole the pa'son's mare, thinking to please him, but pa'son were quite upset. Whatever Servant David were thinking about when he made a Psalm that nobody can sing without disgracing himself, I can't fathom! Now then, the Fourth Psalm, to Samuel Wakely's tune, as improved by me."
 "'Od seize your sauce—I tell ye to sing the Hundred-and-Ninth to Wiltshire, and sing it you shall!" roared Henchard. "Not a single one of all the droning crew of ye goes out of this room till that Psalm is sung!" He slipped off the table, seized the poker, and going to the door placed his back against it. "Now then, go ahead, if you don't wish to have your cust pates broke!"
"Don't 'ee, don't'ee take on so!—As 'tis the Sabbath-day, and 'tis Servant David's words and not ours, perhaps we don't mind for once, hey?" said one of the terrified choir, looking round upon the rest. So the instruments were tuned and the comminatory verses sung.
 "Thank ye, thank ye," said Henchard in a softened voice, his eyes growing downcast, and his manner that of a man much moved by the strains. "Don't you blame David," he went on in low tones, shaking his head without raising his eyes. "He knew what he was about when he wrote that!... If I could afford it, be hanged if I wouldn't keep a church choir at my own expense to play and sing to me at these low, dark times of my life. But the bitter thing is, that when I was rich I didn't need what I could have, and now I be poor I can't have what I need!"