נַּחַ לַכ
ה ה ' ֵא
מ ְ ע ָ הִ דּ
רְָד
שֲִׁה
הַ בְִּו
י נ וֵּכ
נִ י הַ גּ ֶ בֶ רֲא
נָ שׁ וּ בָ ה עַ ד ־ הְו
מְִל
תָּ הַא
מּ ַַכ כ ְִ פ
נ ָ שׁ וּ בָ הְו
םִ י
ה ע ֳ נִ יָא
לָ חְ תָָּס
בּ ִֵל
הֹכּ
So he urges her to cry into that sea until we all sink or swim together:
ה וֹ רִ י ִ ד י... ִשׁ י r Let your tears flow like a river. Pour out your heart like water. He does not explain or resolve. He makes space.
And she does cry out, stronger now:
ְר יטָ ה י עוֹלַ לְ תָּ Look, O God, and see! To whom have You done this? Her situation hasn’ t changed. But she has been accompanied long enough to rise. She speaks now in protest and in prayer.
The narrator hears her. He joins her:
ָר I am the man who has seen affliction. He answers his own question. To what shall I compare you? To myself. By truly seeing her suffering, he has entered it. This is compassion, suffering-with.
From here, the voices converge. They reach for traditional theology:
הָשְׂפְּחַנ...’ Let us examine our ways and return to God.
It fails. Together, Jerusalem and the narrator verbalize the horrible truth:
ל ֹא You, God, have not forgiven. Because sometimes repentance meets not mercy, but silence.
Still we call out, reaching for a God who does not answer. But now we do it together:
י בֵ נ וּ ה ' אֵ ֶ ל י Ç Return us to You, O God, and we shall return. Do not abandon us. For we have not abandoned each other. We cannot return to you until you return to us.
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