A paraphrase of Psalm 129, a Song of Ascents or pilgrimage hymn. While it may seem, from the speed with which I'm shooting this series of hymns out, that they present no difficulty, believe me, I struggle mightily with their form and structure – some more than others. And when a particularly resistant text finally falls into place, as often as not, I find that without meaning to, I've invented a new metrical or syllabic verse form that compels me to write an original tune as well. So it is with this hymn. I could probably add a few syllables here and there to make it fit something, but I don't want to, since above all I prize economy of words. ART: A thatched roof in Lesotho, photograph by Tjeerd Wiersma, 2004. licensed under the
Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.
Let Israel say: How often from my youth
The wicked have oppressed me for the truth!
Yet they won not in their attack,
Though plowing furrows in my back.
The Lord is just, redressing wrongs;
He cut apart their binding thongs.
Let those who tilt at Zion be turned back,
Like grass upon the housetops, withered black:
The mower's hand fills not with leaves,
Nor does the baler's arm with sheaves.
Then none who pass them in their shame
Shall say, "We bless you in God's name."
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