To the chief singer, on lyre. A psalm of Dawiḏ.

1 Save, 𐤉𐤄𐤅𐤄, for the kind one is no more!
For the trustworthy have ceased from among the sons of men.

2 They speak falsehood with each other;
Flattering lips, and a double heart they speak.

3 𐤉𐤄𐤅𐤄 cuts off all flattering lips,
A tongue that speaks swelling words,

4 Who said, “With our tongue we do mightily;
Our lips are our own;
Who is master over us?”

5 “Because of the oppression of the poor,
because of the sighing of the needy,
I now arise,” says 𐤉𐤄𐤅𐤄,
“I place in safety – he pants for it.”

6 The Words of 𐤉𐤄𐤅𐤄 are clean words,
Silver tried in a furnace of earth,
Refined seven times.

7 You guard them, O 𐤉𐤄𐤅𐤄,
You preserve them,
from this generation forever.

8 The wicked walk around on every side,
When worthlessness is exalted among the sons of men.