תרגום רונאלד קנוקס לפרקים האלפביתיים

A man who has found a vigorous wife has found a rare treasure, brought from distant shores.
Bound to her in loving confidence, he will have no need of spoil.
Content, not sorrow, she will bring him as long as life lasts.
Does she not busy herself with wool and thread, plying her hands with ready skill?
Ever she steers her course like some merchant ship, bringing provision from far away.
From early dawn she is up, assigning food to the household, so that each waiting-woman has her share.
Ground must be examined, and bought, and planted out as a vineyard, with the earnings of her toil.
How briskly she girds herself to the task, how tireless are her arms!
Industry, she knows, is well rewarded, and all night long her lamp does not go out.
Jealously she sets her hands to work, her fingers clutch the spindle.
Kindly is her welcome to the poor, her purse ever open to those in need.
Let the snow lie cold if it will, she has no fears for her household; no servant of hers but is warmly clad.
Made by her own hands was the coverlet on her bed, the clothes of lawn and purple that she wears.
None so honoured at the city gate as that husband of hers, when he sits in council with the elders of the land.
Often she will sell linen of her own weaving, or make a girdle for the travelling merchant to buy.
Protected by her own industry and good repute, she greets the morrow with a smile.
Ripe wisdom governs her speech, but it is kindly instruction she gives.
She keeps watch over all that goes on in her house, not content to go through life eating and sleeping.
That is why her children are the first to call her blessed, her husband is loud in her praise:
Unrivalled are you among all the women that have enriched their homes.
Vain are the winning ways, beauty is a snare; it is the woman who fears the Lord that will achieve renown.
Work such as hers claims its reward; let her life be spoken of with praise at the city gates.

(Praises. Of David.)
AND shall I not extol you, my God, my king; shall I not bless your name for ever and for evermore? Blessing shall be yours, day after day; for ever and for evermore praised be your name.
Can any praise be worthy of the Lord's majesty, any thought set limits to his greatness?
Down the ages the story of your deeds is told, your power is ever acclaimed;
each magnifies your unapproachable glory, makes known your wonders.
Fearful are the tales they tell of your power, proclaiming your magnificence;
grateful their memory of all your goodness, as they boast of your just dealings.
How gracious the Lord is, how merciful, how patient, how rich in pity!
Is he not a loving Lord to his whole creation; does not his mercy reach out to all that he has made?
Joining, then, Lord, in your whole creation's praise, let your faithful servants bless you;
let them publish the glory of your kingdom, and discourse of your power,
making that power known to the race of men, the glory, the splendour of that kingdom!
No age shall dawn but shall see you reigning still; generations pass, and your rule shall endure.
O how true the Lord is to all his promises, how gracious in all his dealings!
Prostrate though men may fall, the Lord will lift them up, will revive their crushed spirits.
Quietly, Lord, your creatures raise their eyes to you, and you grant them, in due time, their nourishment,
ready to open your hand, and fill with your blessing all that lives.
So faithful the Lord is in all he does, so gracious in all his dealings.
The Lord draws near to every man that calls upon him, will he but call upon him with a true heart.
Utter but the wish, you that fear the Lord, and he will grant it, will hear the cry, and bring aid.
Vigilantly the Lord watches over all that love him, marks down the wicked for destruction.
While these lips tell of the Lord's praise, let all that lives bless his holy name, for ever, and for evermore.

Alone she dwells, the city erewhile so populous; a widow now, once a queen among the nations; tributary now, that once had provinces at her command.
Be sure she weeps; there in the darkness her cheeks are wet with tears; of all that courted her, none left to console her, all those lovers grown weary of her, and turned into enemies.
Cruel the suffering and the bondage of Juda's exile; that she must needs dwell among the heathen! Nor respite can she find; close at her heels the pursuit, and peril on either hand.
Desolate, the streets of Sion; no flocking, now, to the assembly; the gateways lie deserted. Sighs priest, and the maidens go in mourning, so bitter the grief that hangs over all.
Exultant, now, her invaders; with her enemies nothing goes amiss. For her many sins, the Lord has brought doom on her, and all her children have gone into exile, driven before the oppressor.
Fled is her beauty, the Sion that was once so fair; her chieftains have yielded their ground before the pursuer, strengthless as rams that can find no pasture.
Grievous the memories she holds, of the hour when all her ancient glories passed from her, when her people fell defenceless before the invader, unresisting before an enemy that derided them.
Heinously Jerusalem sinned; what wonder if she became an outlaw? How they fell to despising her when they saw her shame, that once flattered her! Deeply she sighed, and turned away her head.
Ill might skirts of her robe the defilement conceal; alas, so reckless of her doom, alas, fallen so low, with none to comfort her! Mark it well, Lord; see how humbled I, how exultant my adversary!
Jealous hands were laid on all she so treasured; so it was that she must see Gentiles profane her sanctuary, Gentiles, by your ordinance from the assembly debarred.
Kindred was none but went sighing for is lack of bread, offered its precious heirlooms for food to revive men's hearts. Mark it well, Lord, and see my pride abased!
Look well, you that pass by, and say if there was ever grief like this grief of mine; never a grape on the vineyard left to glean, when the Lord's threat of vengeance is fulfilled.
Must fire from heaven waste my whole being, ere I can learn my lesson? Must he catch me in a net, to drag me back from my course? Desolate he leaves me, to pine away all the day long with grief.
No respite it gives me, the yoke of guilt I bear, by his hand fastened down upon my neck; see, I faint under it! The Lord has given me up a prisoner to duress there is no escaping.
Of all I had, the Lord has taken away the noblest; lost to me, all the flower of my chivalry, under his strict audit; Sion, poor maid, here was a wine-press well trodden down!
Pray you, should I not weep? Fountains these eyes are, that needs must flow; comforter is none at hand, that should revive my spirits. Lost to me, all those sons of mine, outmatched by their enemy.
Quest for consolation is vain, let her plead where she will; neighbours of Jacob, so the Lord decrees, are Jacob's enemies, and all around they shrink from her, as from a thing unclean.
Right the Lord has in his quarrel; I have set his commands at defiance. O world, take warning; see what pangs I suffer, all my folk gone into exile, both man and maid.
So false the friends that were once my suitors! And now the city lacks priests and elders both, that went begging their bread, to revive the heart in them.
Take note, Lord, of my anguish, how my bosom burns, and my heart melts within me, in bitter ruth. And all the while, sword threatens without, and death not less cruel within.
Uncomforted my sorrow, but not unheard; my enemies hear it, and rejoice that my miseries are of your contriving. Ah, but when your promise comes true, they shall feel my pangs!
Vintager who did leave my boughs so bare, for my much offending, mark well their cruelty, and strip these too in their turn; here be sighs a many, and a sad heart to claim it.