On the Eleventh Psalm

Merciful God, how few

Good folk remain on earth.

Behold, each one in heart

Is setting snares for another.

But with fine words,

And lips honey-sweet

They kiss—and wait

To see how soon

Their brother to his grave

Will find his way.

But Thou who art Lord alone

Shuttest up the evil lips,

That great-speaking tongue

That says:—

“No trifling thing are we,

How glorious shall we show

In intellect and speech.

Who is that Lord

that will forbid

Our thoughts and words?”

Yea, the Lord shall say to Thee

“I shall arise, this day

On their behalf—

People of mine in chains, [[131]]

The poor and humble ones

These will I glorify.

Little, dumb and slaves are they,

Yet on guard about them

Will I set my Word.”

Like trampled grass

Shall perish your thoughts

And words alike.

Like silver, hammered, beaten,

Seven times melted o’er the fire,

Are thy words, Oh Lord.

Scatter these holy words of Thine,

O’er all the earth,

That Thy children

little and poor

May believe in miracles on earth.