At eventide, lo! terror, Before morning, he is not! This, is the portion of them who plunder us, And the lot of them who make of us a prey.

Doth he not when he hath levelled the face thereof, Cast abroad the fennel? And, the cummin, doth he not scatter? And plant wheat in rows, And barley in a lot, And spelt in the border thereof?

Yea he himself, hath cast for them a lot, And his own hand, hath given to them a portion by line, - Unto times age-abiding, shall they possess it, To generation after generation, shall they dwell therein.

Among the smooth stones of the torrent - valley, is thy portion. They, they, are thy lot; Even to them, hast thou Poured out a drink-offering. Caused to ascend a gift. Over these things, can I cease to grieve?