On tops of the mountains they do sacrifice, And on the hills they make perfume, Under oak, and poplar, and terebinth, For good is its shade.

Blow ye a cornet in Gibeah, a trumpet in Ramah, Shout, O Beth-Aven, after thee, O Benjamin.

For wind they sow, and a hurricane they reap, Stalk it hath none -- a shoot not yielding grain, If so be it yield -- strangers do swallow it up.

Return do the dwellers under his shadow, They revive as corn, and flourish as a vine, His memorial is as wine of Lebanon.