Psalms 2
2
1Why do the heæthin frennisinlie forgether, an’ the peeple imagin ane vaine thing?
2The kings o’ the yirth sete thamsel’s, an’ the ruulers tak’ cunsil thegither agayne the Lord, an’ agayne his Anainted, sayin’,
3Let us brik thair ban’s asinder, an’ thraw thair coords awa frae us.
4He that sits in heæven sall lauch: the Lord sall hae thame in skoorn.
5Than sall he speik untill thame in wræth, an’ veks thame in his sair displeesur.
6But for a’ this hae I sete my King apon my haly hill o’ Zion.
7I wull speik furth the decrie: the Lord heth said untill me, Thou art my Son; this daye hae I gotten thee.
8Ax o’ me, an’ I sall gie thee the heæthin for thine heirskep, an’ the maist owt‐bye pairts o’ the yirth for thy haudin.
9Thou sallt brik thame wi’ ane rodd o’ ern; thou sallt basch thame intil flendirs like ane patter’s vesshel.
10Be wyse nowe therfor, O ye kings; be instruket, ye juudges o’ the yirth.
11Ser’ the Lord wi’ dreædour, an’ rejoyce wi’ trimmlin’.
12Kisse the Son, in kase he be angerie, an’ ye dree destruckshon in the waye whan his wræth is kinlet onlie awee.
13Blisset ar a’ thaye wha pit thair trust in him.
Valið núna:
Psalms 2: SCOHSR
Áherslumerki
Deildu
Afrita
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Translated by Henry Scott Riddell. Published in London 1856-8.