Psalms 12

1 To the Chief Musician. On the Octave. A Melody of David. O save Yahweh, for the man of lovingkindness, is no more, for the faithful, have vanished, from among the sons of men.

Til sangmesteren, efter Sjeminit; en salme av David. Frels, Herre! for de fromme er borte, de trofaste er forsvunnet blandt menneskenes barn.

2 Deception, speak they, every one with his neighbour, —with lips uttering smooth things—with a heart and a heart, do they speak.

Løgn taler de, hver med sin næste, med falske leber; med tvesinnet hjerte taler de.

3 May Yahweh cut off All the lips that utter smooth things, —the tongue that speaketh swelling words;

Herren utrydde alle falske leber, den tunge som taler store ord,

4 Them who say—With our tongue, will we prevail, our lips, are our own, who is our master?

dem som sier: Ved vår tunge skal vi få overhånd, våre leber er med oss, hvem er herre over oss?

5 Because of violence done to the poor, because of the crying of the needy, Now, will I arise! O may Yahweh say, —I will place [him] in safety—let him puff at him!

For de elendiges ødeleggelses skyld, for de fattiges sukks skyld vil jeg nu reise mig, sier Herren; jeg vil gi dem frelse som stunder efter den.

6 The words of Yahweh, are words, that are pure, silver refined in a crucible of earth, purified seven times!

Herrens ord er rene ord, likesom sølv som er renset i en smeltedigel i jorden, syv ganger renset.

7 Thou, O Yahweh, wilt keep them, —Thou wilt guard him, from this generation unto times age-abiding.

Du, Herre, vil bevare dem, du vil vokte dem for denne slekt evindelig.

8 On every side, the lawless, march about, —when worthlessness is exalted by the sons of men.

Rundt omkring svermer de ugudelige, når skarn er ophøiet blandt menneskenes barn.