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,
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.