A prayer of the prophet Habacuc for Shigionoth.✻

I have heard, Lord, the tale of thy renown, awe-stricken at the divine power thou hast. Reveal that power in these latter days, in these latter days make it known once more! And though we have earned thy anger, bethink thee of mercy still.

God coming near from Teman, the holy One from yonder hills of Pharan! See how his glory overspreads heaven, his fame echoes through the earth;

the brightness that is his, like light itself, the rays that stream from his hand, masking its strength;

pestilence his outrider, the wasting sickness✻ in his train!

There stood he, and scanned the earth; at his look, the nations were adread; melted were the everlasting mountains, bowed were the ancient hills, his own immemorial pathway, as he journeyed.

I saw the Ethiop quail in his tent,✻ the dwellings of Madian astir with terror.

Is it the rivers, Lord, that have awaked thy anger; should it be the rivers? Or has the sea earned thy vengeance, that thou comest thus mounted on thy horses, on thy victorious chariot;

that bow of thine brought into full play, which grants to Israel the assurance of thy succour?✻ Earth is torn into ravines;

the mountains tremble at the sight. Fierce falls the rain-storm, the depths beneath us roar aloud, the heights beckon from above;

sun and moon linger in their dwelling-place;✻ so bright thy arrows volley, with such sheen of lightning glances thy spear.

Nay, if thou ride through the world so angrily, with thy disdain striking the nations dumb,

it is to rescue thy own people, rescue thy own anointed servant, that thou goest out to battle. Down fall the turrets in yonder castle of godlessness, down sink the foundations to their very base;

lights thy ban on its princes, on the heads of its warriors, whose blustering rage would overthrow me, confident now as some petty tyrant who oppresses the poor in secret.

Over the sea, over the ooze beneath its waves, thou hast made a path for thy horses to tread.

Such was the tale that set my whole frame trembling; at the rumour of it my lips quivered with fear; there was a faintness overcame my whole being, my steps faltered as I went. Now with tranquil heart let me await this day of doom; upon the enemies of our people it is destined to fall.✻

What though the fig-tree never bud, the vine yield no fruit, the olive fail, the fields bear no harvest; what though our folds stand empty of sheep, our byres of cattle?

Still will I make my boast in the Lord, triumph in the deliverance God sends me.

The Lord, the ruler of all, is my stronghold; he will bring me safely on my way, safe as the hind whose feet echo already on the hills.

(For the chief singer, to the harp’s music.✻ )