4000 musicians and a poem
Liberation 1945, by Ben Shahn
Dear friends,
One of King David’s final acts before he died was to assemble an orchestra of 4,000 musicians. The prophet Nathan had already informed him that he will not be the one to build the house of God, “for you are a man of wars and have shed blood.” But David, considered the greatest musician and poet our people have known, understood the importance of music and song to religious life. So, he got the band ready for the dedication of the Temple, even though he knew it would take years until his son, Shlomo would finalize the building of the Temple.
He also wrote a poem for the day of the dedication of the Temple, which we can imagine performed by 4,000 instrumentalists and singers, singing of the human struggle through times of personal and collective strife. The war in Iran is paused, thank God, but others persist, in Lebanon and Ukraine and Sudan and many other places. So perhaps the building of a house of song and love will have to be built by our kids or grandkids. But maybe we can take a page from King David and set them up with poetry of gratitude and beauty for the day on which they dedicate their Temple of Peace.
Here’s a translation I made years back the poem David left for that day:
(A song of praise for the dedication of The House, by David.)
Like a woman pulling a bucket
Filled with water
From the well
So have you, God,
Raised me from the dark,
Cold depths.
Those who were glad I disappeared
Now watch me
Sing to you in the sunshine.
You,
Who are my self and all at once,
My God,
To you did I direct my cry for help.
You heard, and healed me.
You enabled me to rise
Above the hellish noise to extricate
Myself from the downward spiral
To remember that I am alive.
Do you believe in mercy?
Then sing!
Remind yourself that life is holy.
Brokenness is a beginning.
At night she weeps,
By Morning she is singing joy.
But I forgot all this.
My comfort made me fear
The slightest change.
Then the mountain that we climbed together shook,
And you, God,
Were hiding.
Suddenly alone, I panicked.
I called you.
I begged you to come back.
“What good is my blood to you?
My lifeless corpse is worthless!
Does dust pray?
Does it speak your truth?
Sh’ma, Adonai - Hear me - spare me -
Help me!”
And you did.
You turned my mourning into dancing.
You unclothed me,
Washed the dirt off my body, gave me the courage to be happy.
Now I can sing again.
With the sun and
The stars and
The mountain and
The well and
All that is constantly expressing glory.
You,
Who are my self and all at once,
My God,
I will thank you forever.
Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Misha