Salmenes 12

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

5 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.

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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