Psalms 7
7
¶ Shiggaion o’ David, whilk he sang untill the Lord anent the wurds o’ Cush the Benjamite.
1O Lord my God, in thee do I pit my trust; saufe me frae a’ thame that persikute me, an’ delifer me.
2In kase he ræive my saul like ane lion, tatterin it in pieces, quhile ther is nane til delifer.
3O Lord my God, gif I hae dune this, gif ther be inequitie in my han’s;
4Gif I hae rewairdet ill til him that was at peece wi’ me (ay, an’ I hae deliferet him that wuthouten caus is mine enimie);
5Let the enimie persikute my saul, an’ tak’ it; yis, let him tramp doun my liffe apon the yirth, an’ laye mine honor in the mool. Selah.
6Ræise up, O Lord, in thine angir; lifte up thysel’ becaus o’ the frennisin o’ mine enimies; an’ awauken for me til the juudgemint that thou hest oordiret.
7Sae sall the congregatione o’ the peeple be roun aboot thee; for thair sak’s therfor turn thou bak on hie.
8The Lord sall juudge the peeple: juudge me, O Lord, akordin’ til my richteousniss, an’ akordin’ til my intiritie that is in me.
9Och let the wicketniss o’ the wicket cum til ane en’; but sete firm an’ mak’ siccer the juste: for the richteous God tryes the hairts an’ reens.
10My saufgaird is in God, which saufes the upricht in hairt.
11God juudges the richteous, an’ God is angirie wi’ the wicket ilka daye.
12Gif he turnna, he wull sherpen his sword; he heth bendet his bowe, an’ mæde it readie.
13He heth alsua prepairet for him the instriments o’ deæth; he ordeens his arras agayne the persikuters.
14Behald the wicket travails wi’ inequitie, an’ heth conceifet mischief, an’ brung furth fausehuud.
15He mæde ane pitt an’ howket it deepe, an’ heth fa’n intil the seuch whilk he mæde.
16His mischief sall turn bak on his ain heæd, an his vielent deelin’s sall cum doun apon his ain powe.
17I wull prayse the Lord akordin’ til his richteousniss; an’ wull sing prayse til the næme o’ the Maist Hie.
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Psalms 7: SCOHSR
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Translated by Henry Scott Riddell. Published in London 1856-8.
Psalms 7
7
¶ Shiggaion o’ David, whilk he sang untill the Lord anent the wurds o’ Cush the Benjamite.
1O Lord my God, in thee do I pit my trust; saufe me frae a’ thame that persikute me, an’ delifer me.
2In kase he ræive my saul like ane lion, tatterin it in pieces, quhile ther is nane til delifer.
3O Lord my God, gif I hae dune this, gif ther be inequitie in my han’s;
4Gif I hae rewairdet ill til him that was at peece wi’ me (ay, an’ I hae deliferet him that wuthouten caus is mine enimie);
5Let the enimie persikute my saul, an’ tak’ it; yis, let him tramp doun my liffe apon the yirth, an’ laye mine honor in the mool. Selah.
6Ræise up, O Lord, in thine angir; lifte up thysel’ becaus o’ the frennisin o’ mine enimies; an’ awauken for me til the juudgemint that thou hest oordiret.
7Sae sall the congregatione o’ the peeple be roun aboot thee; for thair sak’s therfor turn thou bak on hie.
8The Lord sall juudge the peeple: juudge me, O Lord, akordin’ til my richteousniss, an’ akordin’ til my intiritie that is in me.
9Och let the wicketniss o’ the wicket cum til ane en’; but sete firm an’ mak’ siccer the juste: for the richteous God tryes the hairts an’ reens.
10My saufgaird is in God, which saufes the upricht in hairt.
11God juudges the richteous, an’ God is angirie wi’ the wicket ilka daye.
12Gif he turnna, he wull sherpen his sword; he heth bendet his bowe, an’ mæde it readie.
13He heth alsua prepairet for him the instriments o’ deæth; he ordeens his arras agayne the persikuters.
14Behald the wicket travails wi’ inequitie, an’ heth conceifet mischief, an’ brung furth fausehuud.
15He mæde ane pitt an’ howket it deepe, an’ heth fa’n intil the seuch whilk he mæde.
16His mischief sall turn bak on his ain heæd, an his vielent deelin’s sall cum doun apon his ain powe.
17I wull prayse the Lord akordin’ til his richteousniss; an’ wull sing prayse til the næme o’ the Maist Hie.
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Translated by Henry Scott Riddell. Published in London 1856-8.