WHERE WILL I FIND YOU
Where, Lord, will I find you: your place is high and obscured.
And where won’t I find you: your glory fills the world.
You dwell deep within— you’ve fixed the ends of creation.
You stand, a tower for the near, refuge to those far off.
You’ve lain above the Ark, here, yet live in the highest heavens.
Exalted among your hosts, although beyond their hymns— no heavenly sphere could ever contain you, let alone a chamber within.
In being borne above them on an exalted throne, you are closer to them than their breath and skin.
Their mouths bear witness for them, that you alone gave them form. Your kingdom’s burden is theirs; who wouldn’t fear you?
And who could fail to search for you— who sends down food when it is due?
I sought your nearness. With all my heart I called you. And in my going out to meet you, I found you coming toward me, as in the wonders of your might and holy works I saw you.
Who would say he hasn’t seen your glory as the heavens’ hordes declare their awe of you without a sound being heard?
But could the Lord, in truth, dwell in men on earth?
How would men you made from the dust and clay fathom your presence there, enthroned upon their praise?
The creatures hovering over the world praise your wonders— your throne borne high above their heads, as you bear all forever.
By Yehuda Halevi
Translated by Peter Cole
