On each of the Jewish festivals and Holy Days —and likewise on many Sabbaths—the traditional services of the synagogue are embellished or tricked out by special poetic compositions known as piyyutim.
In the Sephardic liturgy, these are drawn mainly from the work of the Hebrew poets who flourished in Spain during the 11th and 12th centuries, and whose most famous representatives are Solomon ibn Gabirol of Malaga (1021-1069), Moses ibn Ezra of Granada (1070-1138) and Judah Halevi of Toledo (1085-1145). With few exceptions, they are of the nature of devotional lyrics, distinguished by directness of thought and classical purity of language.
Quite different, on the other hand, is the Ashkenazic repertoire. Leaning heavily on the compositions of Eleazar Kalir of Palestine (9th century) and of Meshullam ben Kalonymos of Rome (10th century), and incorporating also the improvisations of innumerable local cantors and poetasters, the Ashkenazic piyyutim are essentially learned lucubrations rather than spontaneous or natural outbursts. Their characteristic is not simplicity but, on the contrary, a deliberate and contrived involution, and they depend for their effect not so much on power of thought and feeling as on verbal dexterity, clever manipulations of Scriptural texts, and recondite allusions to rabbinic legend and lore.
To speak—with all due qualification—in terms of English literature, the difference between the two genres might perhaps be compared to that between Donne and Herbert on the one hand and Quarles’ Emblems or Lyly’s Euphues on the other.
The following selection is designed to convey a general impression of the High Holy Day piyyutim of both types. A second selection will appear next month. The translation is, of course, a compromise. As the sages said of the Scriptures: he who translates literally is a liar.
The reader will observe especially that throughout these poems there is often a sharp and rapid descent from the peaks of imagination to the deep valleys of bathos. This is not due entirely to the deficiencies of the translator, but in many instances represents a deliberate at- tempt to convey, albeit in attenuated form, something of the complexion and style of the originals, in which moments of genuine poetic passion are not infrequently hemmed in by hackneyed clichés and banalities.
These translations are taken from the writer’s work, Festivals of the Jewish Year, which will be published by William Sloane Associates in November, and which includes many further renderings of piyyutim covering the entire range of the liturgy.—Theodor H. Gaster
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The Inn of God
(Mi-beth meloni)
From the supplications recited during the month before Yom Kippur. Sephardic rite.
Not in the casual caravanserai,
But where Thy doors stand open,
thither, Lord,
I turn to seek my rest; when I draw nigh,
Do Thou give welcome with a kindly word.
Lo, I am bowed beneath the heavy load
Of stubbornness, and I am gone astray;
Perverseness is the guide upon the road,
And Sin it is that speeds me on my way.
A vagrant weary and forespent am I,
Whom Evil beckons onwards all the day
And drives; but lo, his promise is a lie,
For nightfall brings no rest, but new affray.
Lord, wake me from the dreams of this long
night;
Wake Thou my tired spirit, and fulfill
The dream of Thy redemption. Let the light
Of morning shine from yonder clouded hill.
—Moses Ibn Ezra
The Two Kings
(Melech ‘elyon)
From the Additional Service (Musaph) for the Second Day of Rosh Hashanah, according to the Ashkenazic rite.
King in the world of light—
Austere, exalted He,
Above all powers that be,
All things by His command are made
and known.
Uplifted high and proud,
He raiseth up the bow’d;
‘is He that setteth kings upon the
throne.
Eterne His reign.
* * *
King in the world of light—
The cloudmist is His screen;
He strides the flames between,
And drives His cherub-chariot thro’ the
sky.
Stars in their courses shine
To light the way divine,
And shimmering sparks proclaim that
He is nigh.
Eterne His reign
* * *
Kings in the world of blight—
Grow old and faint and slow,
Down to the Pit must go,
Down to the slime and slough must
they descend;
After the world’s spent riot,
Into the grave unquiet,
Into the weariness that knows no end.
How long their reign?
Kings in the world of blight—
Lo, at the end of all,
Sleep on their eyes shall fall,
And slumber o’er their eyelids shall be
sprent;
Folds of obscurity
Their winding sheet shall be,
And gray oblivion all their cerement.
How long their reign?
—Simeon Ben Isaac Ben Abun
(10th Cent.)
Judgment Day
(U-netanneh Tokeph)
From the Additional Service (Musaph) for the High Holy Days, according to the Ashkenazic rite.
A sudden hush, a trumpet blast—
The angels quail and are aghast;
“The Judgment Day is here,” they cry,
“The Judgment on the hosts on high!”
(For there’s no minister of light
Untarnish’ in the Judge’ sight.)
And all that roam the earth below
Like sheep before their shepherd go,
Filing past him to the fold,
Counted, number’ reckon’ told.
God declares and God decrees
When Fate’s abhorrè shears to these
Shall come; and with His mighty hand
Sets upon their souls the brand.
* * *
Dust are men, to dust return;
With their souls their bread they earn—
Fragile vessels, wither’ grass,
Fading flowers, shades that pass,
Drifting clouds and winds that blow,
Dust specks, dreams that wingè go.
But Thou, eternal King sublime,
Thy days and years outdistance time.
Thron’ above the cherubim,
Who can all Thy glory limn?
Who the mystery proclaim
Hidden in Thy hidden Name?
Yet Thy glories cover us,
For Thy Name is over us.
—Meshullam Ben Kalonymos
Confessional
(Adonai, negdecha kol ta’ vathi)
From the Morning Service of the Day of Atonement, Sephardic rite.
Before Thee, Lord, my every wish is
known
Ere that one word upon my lips do lie,
Lord, grant me but one moment of Thy
grace,
One moment only, and I gladly die.
One moment, Lord, if Thou wouldst but
accord,
Gladly would I commit into Thy keep
All that may yet remain of this frail breath,
And I would sleep, and sweet would be my
sleep.
When I am far from Thee, my life is death;
My death were life, if I to Thee might cling;
Yet lo, I know not wherewith I might come
Into Thy presence, nor what offering bring.
Teach me, O Lord, Thy ways, and grant
release
From Folly’ prison and her heavy bond;
Show me to bow my soul, while yet I may,
And when I bow it, spurn not to respond.
Now, ere the day come when unto myself
A burden am I, and my head bends low,
And age and slow corruption take their toll,
And I grow weary, and my feet are slow;
Ere that I go where erst my fathers went,
And reach the journey’ end, which is the
tomb—
A stranger and a sojourner on earth,
Whose only portion is her ample womb.
My youth hath all in wantonness been spent,
And ne’have I prepared for my long home;
The world was too much with me, veil’ my
sight,
That ne’ I thought upon the world to
come.
How can I serve my Maker, when that I
Serve this dull clay, and am the thrall of
lust?
How seek the lofty height, who yet may lie
To-morn a-mouldering in the silent dust?
How can my heart respond to present joy,
Which knows not if the morning will be
bright,
When day conspires with day but to destroy,
And but to ruin night conspires with night?
My dust shall yet be wafted on the winds;
My flesh into the common earth descend;
What shall I say, who am pursued by lust
From life’s first dawning to her bitter end?
What profit lies in time or length of days,
An they be empty of Thy grace? What thing
Have I for guerdon, if I have not Thee?
Naked I am; Thou art my covering.
Yet wherefore words, which are but words
alone?
Before Thee, Lord, my every wish is known.
—Judah Halevi
The Glory of God
(Asher ometz tehillatecha)
From the Morning Service of the Day of Atonement, Ashkenazic rite.
Where Angels through the azure fly,
Where Beams of light illume the sky,
Where rides Celestial Cavalry,
Where Dim, Ethereal voices cry,
Is seen the wonder of Thy ways.
Yet dost Thou not disdain the praise
Of Flesh and blood who eager throng
About Thy Gates and, all day long,
Hapless raise their plaintive song,
Invoking Thee to right their wrong;
And this Thy glory is.
Where, in the clear and cloudless height,
Jostle the cherub hosts, and bright
Flaming Legions pierce the night,
With all the Ministers of light,
Is seen the wonder of Thy ways.
Yet dost Thou not disdain the praise
Of them who, in the here below,
Do Naught of bliss and comfort know,
Who, Overwhelm’d with grief and woe,
Tread their Petty pace and slow;
And this Thy glory is.
Where Quires celestial at Thy side
And Regiments of grace abide,
Where the great Bond of Souls is tied,
Where all the Thund’rous cohorts ride,
Is seen the wonder of Thy ways.
Yet dost Thou not disdain the praise
Of them who, Unredeemè late
And early in their Vigil wait,
Watching at the heavenly gate,
Yearning that Thou wilt mark their fate,
Zealous that Thou wilt purge their stain,
And take them back to Thee again.
And this Thy glory is.
—Meshullam Ben Kalonymos
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