¹(Til sangmesteren. Efter den ottende. En salme af David.) HERRE, hjælp, thi de fromme er borte, svundet er Troskab blandt Menneskens Børn;

¹To the Overseer, on the octave. — A Psalm of David. Save, Jehovah, for the saintly hath failed, For the stedfast have ceased From the sons of men:

²de taler Løgn, den ene til den anden, med svigefulde Læber og tvedelt Hjerte.

²Vanity they speak each with his neighbour, Lip of flattery! With heart and heart they speak.

³Hver svigefuld Læbe udrydde HERREN, den Tunge, der taler store Ord,

³Jehovah doth cut off all lips of flattery, A tongue speaking great things,

⁴dem, som siger: "Vor Tunge gør os stærke, vore Læber er med os, hvo er vor Herre?"

⁴Who said, `By our tongue we do mightily: Our lips [are] our own; who [is] lord over us?`

⁵"For armes Nød og fattiges Suk vil jeg nu stå op", siger HERREN, "jeg frelser den, som man blæser ad."

⁵Because of the spoiling of the poor, Because of the groaning of the needy, Now do I arise, saith Jehovah, I set in safety [him who] doth breathe for it.

⁶HERRENs Ord er rene Ord, det pure, syvfold lutrede Sølv.

⁶Sayings of Jehovah [are] pure sayings; Silver tried in a furnace of earth refined sevenfold.

⁷HERRE, du vogter os, værner os evigt mod denne Slægt.

⁷Thou, O Jehovah, dost preserve them, Thou keepest us from this generation to the age.

⁸De gudløse færdes frit overalt, når Skarn ophøjes blandt Menneskens Børn.

⁸Around the wicked walk continually, According as vileness is exalted by sons of men!