Why is my beloved so haughty,
and why is He so angry with me?
Before Him why do I shake like a reed?
He’s forgotten how I walked in the wilderness
after Him—and doesn’t respond, though I plead.
If He kills me still I will trust in Him.
If He hides His face, to His goodness I’ll turn.
The Lord’s favor to His servant will not alter—
for how could the finest gold go dim?
© Peter Cole. From The Dream of the Poem: Hebrew Poetry in Muslim and Christian Spain: c. 905–1492 (Princeton University Press, 2007). By arrangement with the translator. All rights reserved.
