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.

Wɔde ma dwonkyerɛfo se wɔnto no wɔ “Seminit” sanku nne so. Dawid dwom. Boa yɛn, Awurade, na nyamesurofo asa; nokwafo ayera wɔ nnipa mu.

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

Obiara di atoro kyerɛ ne yɔnko; wɔn ano a ɛdɛfɛdɛfɛ no ka nnaadaasɛm.

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

Ma Awurade ntwa nnaadaa ano ne tɛkrɛma biara a ɛhoahoa ne ho nkyene;

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

nea ɛka se, “Yɛde yɛn tɛkrɛma bedi nkonim; yɛn ano bedi ama yɛn, na hena na odi yɛn so tumi?”

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!

“Esiane ɔhyɛ a wɔde hyɛ mmɔborɔni ne ohiani apinisi no nti, mɛsɔre afei,” Awurade na ose. “Mɛbɔ wɔn ho ban afi wɔn a wɔhaw wɔn no ho.”

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

Awurade asɛm yɛ nokware te sɛ dwetɛ a wɔasɔn so wɔ fononoo mu, na wɔahoa ho mpɛn ason.

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

Awurade, wobɛkora mmɔborɔni na woabɔ yɛn ho ban afi saa nnipa yi ho afebɔɔ.

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

Amumɔyɛfo nenam sɛnea wɔpɛ, bere a adesamma de nidi ma afide.