Gàidhlig
Salm 144
Beannaicht' gu robh Iehòbhah treun,
mo charraig e 's mo threòir;
Mo làmh a theagaisgeas gu cath,
's gu còmhrag mhath mo mheòir,
Mo mhath, mo dhìon, 's mo bhaideal àrd,
mo shlànaighear, 's mo sgiath;
'S e cheannsaicheas mo dhaoine fodh'm;
mo mhuinghinn is e Dia.
Dhia, ciod e 'n duine, gu bheil thu
a' gabhail eòlais air?
No ciod e mac an duine fòs
gun tug thu e fa-near?
An duine, 's cosmhail e gu fìor
ri dìomhanas gun stàth;
'S a làith' mar sgàil, 's mar fhaileas fòs
a' gabhail seach a ta.
O lùb, a Dhia, do fhlaitheis àrd,
thig fhèin gun dàil a-nuas;
Bean ris na slèibhtean mòr' led neart,
is uap' thèid deatach suas.
Cuir uat a-mach do dhealanach,
is sgaoil iad siud air fad;
Is tilg a-mach do shaighdean geur',
is claoidhear iad gu grad.
Sìn uat do làmh à d'ionad àrd,
saor mi, is fuasgail orm,
O uisgean làidir iomarcach,
's o làimh nan coigreach borb'.
Iadsan ga bheil am bèil a' teachd
air dìomhanas gach lò;
An deaslàmh siud, is deaslàimh i
làn ìogain agus gò.
Dhut seinneam òran nuadh, a Dhè,
's ann air an t-saltair ghrinn;
Air inneal-ciùil nan teudan deich,
dhut seinneam moladh binn.
'S e Dia a bheir do rìghrean mòr'
slàint' agus buaidh gu treun,
'S e shaoras Daibhidh, 'òglach caomh,
on chlaidheamh mhillteach gheur.
Saor mi, is fuasgail orm o làimh
nan coimheach, ga bheil beul
Làn dìomhanais; 's an deaslàmh fòs
na deaslàimh foill' is brèig'.
A-chum gum biodh ar mic a' fàs
mar ùr-chroinn suas nan òig';
'S ar nigheanan mar chlachan snaidht'
an oisinn lùchairt mhòir.
Ar saibhlean làn den uile stòr;
ar treudan fòs a' breith,
Nam mìltean, seadh, deich mìltean fòs
nar machairean gach leth.
Ar daimh gu obair làidir calm,
gun bhriseadh mach no steach,
A-chum nar sràidean fòs nach biodh
guth caoidh' gu gearanach.
'S beannaicht' am poball sin a tha
san inbhe seo gu beachd;
'S beannaicht' am poball fòs don Dia
Iehòbhah Triath nam feart.
(Bho Tiomnadh Nuadh, Dùn Eideann (2002))
English
Psalm 144
Of David.
Blessed be Yahweh, my rock,
who trains my hands for war,
my fingers for the fight.
He is my faithful love, my fortress,
my stronghold and my Saviour,
my shield, my place of refuge,
who subdues nations under me.
O Yahweh, what are humans,
that you should show them care?
What are frail mortals,
that you spare them a thought?
They are like a breath,
their days but fleeting shadows.
O Yahweh, split heaven and descend,
touch the mountains to make them smoke.
Send down lightning to shatter the foe,
shoot your arrows and scatter them.
Stretch down your hand from above,
deliver me and rescue me
from mighty seas and aliens' hands
whose words are worthless,
whose oaths are false.
I will sing you a new song, O God,
songs to the sound of a ten-stringed lyre,
to the One who gives victory to kings,
and saves David your servant from the deadly
sword.
Deliver and save me from aliens' hands,
whose words are worthless,
whose oaths are false.
Our sons in their youth will be thriving plants,
our daughters like pillars
adorning a palace.
Our barns will be filled with all kinds of food,
our sheep grow by thousands,
by many tens of thousands,
and fat cattle in our fields.
No more breaching of walls or captives in exile,
no screams of anguish in our streets.
Blessed are those of whom this is true.
Blessed are those whose God is Yahweh.
(From The Psalms, Slough (1994))