Gàidhlig
Salm 92
Bhith tabhairt buidheachais do Dhia, 's nì sàr-mhath maiseach e; Bhith tabhairt cliù, O Thì as àird', dod ainm-sa feadh gach rè; Do choibhneas-gràidh sa mhadainn mhoich, gach là bhith cur an cèill; 'S air d'fhìrinn tha neo-mhearachdach, gach oidhch' bhith dèanamh sgèil, Air inneal-ciùil nan teudan deich, is air an t-saltair ghrinn; 'S air clàrsaich le guth fonnmhor àrd, a sheinneas ceòl gu binn. Oir tre do ghnìomharan, a Dhè, rinn thu mi aoibhinn ait; Is ann an oibrean fòs do làmh nì m' gàirdeachas gu pailt. D'oibrean-sa, Dhè, cia iongantach! do smuaintean cò don lèir? An t-amadan cha tuig e seo, 's chan eòl don amhlair e. Tràth chinneas luchd na h-aingidheachd a-nìos mar chinneas feur, Tràth bhitheas fòs luchd-dèanamh uilc a' fàs fo bhlàth gu lèir; 'S e siud as deireadh dhaibh fa-dheòidh gun sgriosar iad am feasd. Ach thusa, Dhè, gu sìorraidh tha àrd-urramach gun cheist. Oir feuch, do naimhdean fhèin, a Dhè, oir feuch, do naimhdean fhèin, Làn-sgriosar iad; iom-sgaoilear fòs luchd-aingidheachd gu lèir; Ach m'adharc togaidh tusa suas, mar adharc buabhaill àird'; Le ola ghlain neo-thruaillidh ùir, ungar mi fhèin led ghràs. Chì mi mo mhiann air m'eascairdean; is cluinnidh fòs mo chluas A toil air luchd na h-aingidheachd, am aghaidh dh'èireas suas. Bidh piseach air an fhìrean chòir mar phailm-chrann ùrar glas; Mar sheudar àrd air Lebanon, a' fàs gu dìreach bras. An dream tha air an suidheachadh an taigh 's an àros Dhè, An cùirtean greadhnach àrd' ar Dia, sìor-fhàsaidh iad gach rè. San àm am bi iad aosmhor liath, bheir iad mòr-mheas a-mach; Is bithidh sultmhor le deagh bhlàth dhuibh siud gach uile neach. A-chum gum feuch iad gu bheil Dia ro-chothromach is ceart; Mo charraig e, 's chan eil ann fhèin aon eucoir no droch bheairt.
(Bho Tiomnadh Nuadh, Dùn Eideann (2002))
English
Psalm 92
Psalm. Song. For the Sabbath.
It is good to give thanks to Yahweh,
to sing psalms to your name, O Most High,
to proclaim your faithful love at dawn
and your constancy every night,
to the sound of the ten-stringed lyre
and the music of the harp,
for your deeds bring me joy, O Yahweh;
the work of your hands makes me sing for joy.
O Yahweh, how great are your deeds,
how very deep are your thoughts!
The stupid person does not know,
fools do not understand,
that though the wicked grow like grass
and evil-doers prosper,
they will be destroyed forever.
But you are exalted forever, O Yahweh,
for surely your foes, O Yahweh,
surely your foes will perish;
all evil-doers will be scattered.
You have raised my head high
like the horns of a wild ox;
I am anointed with rich oils.
I looked on my enemies' ruin;
I heard the rout of my wicked foes.
The righteous will flourish like a palm tree,
and grow like a cedar of Lebanon;
planted in the house of Yahweh,
they flourish in the courts of our God.
They still bear fruit in old age,
staying fresh and green.
They proclaim that Yahweh is upright;
he is my rock,
no fault can be found in him.
(From The Psalms, Slough (1994))