12:1 For the music director, on the eight-string lyre, a psalm of David.
12:2 Help, Adonai! For no one godly exists. For the faithful have vanished from the children of men.
12:3 Everyone tells a lie to his neighbor, talking with flattering lips and a divided heart.
12:4 May Adonai cut off all flattering lips— a tongue bragging big things.
12:5 They say: “With our tongue we’ll prevail. We own our lips—who can master us?”
12:6 “Because of the oppression of the poor, because of the groaning of the needy, now will I arise,” says Adonai. “I will put him in the safe place—he pants for it.”
12:7 The words of Adonai are pure words— like silver refined in an earthly crucible, purified seven times.
12:8 You will keep us safe, Adonai. You will protect us from this generation forever.
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