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.

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.