Psalms 144
1 Of David. Blest be the Lord my rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for fighting.
Af David. Lovet være HERREN, min Klippe, som oplærer mine hænder til Strid, mine Fingre til Krig,
2 My rock and my fortress, my tower, my deliverer, my shield, behind whom I take refuge, who lays nations low at my feet.
min Miskundhed og min Fæstning, min Klippeborg, min Frelser, mit Skjold og den, jeg lider paa, som underlægger mig Folkeslag!
3 Lord, what are mortals that you care for them, humans, that you think of them?
HERRE, hvad er et Menneske, at du kendes ved det, et Menneskebarn, at du agter paa ham?
4 They are like a breath, their days as a shadow that passes.
Mennesket er som et Aandepust, dets Dage som svindende Skygge.
5 Lord, bow your heavens and come down: touch the hills, so that they smoke.
HERRE, sænk din Himmel, stig ned og rør ved Bjergene, saa at de ryger;
6 Flash forth lightning and scatter them, your arrows send forth and confound them.
slyng Lynene ud og adsplit Fjenderne, send dine Pile og indjag dem Rædsel;
7 Stretch out your hand from on high; pluck me out of the mighty waters, out of the hands of foreigners,
udræk din Haand fra det høje, fri og frels mig fra store Vande,
8 who speak with the mouth of falsehood, and lift their right hand to swear lies.
fra fremmedes Haand, de, hvis Mund taler Løgn, hvis højre er Løgnehaand.
9 O God, a new song I would sing you, on a ten-stringed harp make you music.
Gud, jeg vil synge dig en ny Sang, lege for dig paa tistrenget Harpe,
10 For to kings you give the victory, and David your servant you save.
du, som giver Konger Sejr og udfrier David, din Tjener.
11 Snatch me from the cruel sword, rescue me from the hand of foreigners, who speak with the mouth of falsehood, and lift their right hand to swear lies.
Fri mig fra det onde Sværd, frels mig fra fremmedes Haand, de, hvis Mund taler Løgn, hvis højre er Løgnehaand.
12 May our sons in their youth be as plants well tended: our daughters like cornices carved as in palaces.
I Ungdommen er vore Sønner som højvoksne Planter, vore Døtre er som Søjler, udhugget i Tempelstil;
13 May our barns be bursting with produce of all kinds. In the fields may our sheep bear by thousands and ten thousands.
vore Forraadskamre er fulde, de yder Forraad paa Forraad, vore Hjorde føder Tusinder, Titusinder paa vore Marker,
14 May our cattle be fat, our walls unbreached, may no cry of distress ring in our streets.
fede er vore Okser; intet Murbrud, ingen Udvandring, ingen Skrigen paa Torvene.
15 Happy the people who fares so well: and so fares the people whose God is the Lord.
Saligt det Folk, der er saaledes stedt, saligt det Folk, hvis Gud er HERREN!
