Six hundred thousand souls,
Are his spirit
Six hundred thousand supplications,
Are his prayer
Six hundred thousand destinies,
Are his lot

By the ladder of their virtue
Is his supernal ascend
Should their step falter -
His stature is bent

As he dons vigor
Then triumph his hosts
Should his hand slacken
Then vanquish the foe

They crowned him king
And he crossed with but his staff
He bore them in his bosom
And they said to stone him...

He fell upon his face
And bowed to the ground - - -
For there arose before his eyes
A vision from days of yore
and he beheld the day of the burning bush:

The voice called -
He closed his ear
The voice knocked -
The door he blocked
The voice pursued -
He evaded.
Yet his soul know then
There's no escape,
'til late
He struggled
'Til night fell...

Green pastures,
Still waters,
Encircled him, beckoned:
"Do not abandon!"
Splendorous solitude
Embraced him, implored:
"Do not go!"

Still he stood
Amongst the dessert boulders
At the craggy mount -
A Man
Alone
With his G-d
One
On
One

Yet
The thornbush's flame
- a searing compassion
for a nation in chains -
Already blazed in his heart --
And he know
With all his being
That nevermore
Shall he longer
Alone...

From the Hebrew by Yanki Tauber

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