ה ־ אֲ עִָמ
םִי ה מַָד רְֹי
מְ ע וָּשׁ
ה צִָשׂ רְֵפּ
ק מִ מֶַּח
אֲ נַַו
אֱ נָחָ ה אֶָנ
י מְִנּ
דֶָי
רַָדּ
חֵ ם מֵ שִַׁנ
י אִֵנ
ת וּ לְַבּ
שְַׁק
ת ־ צִַבּ
חֵ םַנ
חֵ םַנ
א וֹ יֵ בְכּ
פְ שִַׁנ
וֹ ן֑יּ
הָּל
יִל
֔
Her longing deepens: יב י
יֵע י נִ י עֵ י נִ ִכּי ָר My eyes, my eyes, flow with tears, for distant from me is comfort, someone to restore my soul. She cries out not only to God, but to humanity: someone, anyone, sit beside me.
The narrator hears her. He begins to echo her words: יּ וֹ ן ְבּ י הָ ֵא י ן מְ Zion stretches out her hands, and there is no one to comfort her. He uses her language. He sees her need, names her pain, but still stands outside of it.
Jerusalem speaks again, more desperate:
ִכּ י י ן מְ Hear me, I am sighing. There is no one to comfort me. She is heard, but not held. God’ s justice feels like abandonment. She feels unseen.
But the narrator has seen her, heard her. And he turns her words back against God: r תּ וֹ He has drawn His bow like an enemy. The narrator transforms her grief into rage.
From that pain, he turns to her directly:
י דֵ r מָ ה אֲ דַ מֶּ ה ־ לָּ. r.. ֽ ֵמֲ ח ֖ r ת What can I compare you to, Daughter of Jerusalem? What shall I liken you to so that I might comfort you? Her suffering is as vast as the sea. He cannot accompany her unless he too enters the sea.
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