Psalms 12

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. Deception, speak they, every one with his neighbour,—with lips uttering smooth things—with a heart and a heart, do they speak. May Yahweh cut off All the lips that utter smooth things,—the tongue that speaketh swelling words; Them who say—With our tongue, will we prevail, our lips, are our own, who is our master? 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! The words of Yahweh, are words, that are pure, silver refined in a crucible of earth, purified seven times! Thou, O Yahweh, wilt keep them,—Thou wilt guard him, from this generation unto times age-abiding. On every side, the lawless, march about,—when worthlessness is exalted by the sons of men.

Copyright information for Roth