Psalms

To the Chief Musician. On the Octave. A Melody of David.

12 O save, Yahweh, For the man of lovingkindness is no more, For the faithful have vanished from among the sons of men.

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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