בס״ד
Beshalach
It’s not meant to be that we cross that Sea,
And leave it behind for good.
It seems we’re tossed upon that Deep,
Like flotsam, shards of wood.
Though Pharaoh’s army reaped the whirlwind,
They in the end were drowned.
We are blasted by eternal winds,
Sinking deeper in the Sound.
You raise Your right hand once again,
And then as if upon a whim,
You cast us into a Redder Sea,
To see if we sink or swim.
You planted us on shaky ground,
Yet like that fiddler on the roof,
We’re playing still the Piper’s tune,
Is that not sufficient proof?
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