Chukas

 בס״ד

Chukas

What is this Book of the Wars of HaShem?

It’s a mystery no one has solved,

To answer this riddle, our Rabbis and Sages,

Through the ages were deeply involved.

Were these simply stories the people would tell,

Or a book started by Avraham,

Or snippets from ballads our bards would bring,

Living history they’d sing with aplomb?

A record of things geographic/halachic,

Or a log long maintained by the Am,

Is “The Book of God’s Torah” really its name,

Dost allude to Shir shel Yam?

Is it simply a reference to Sefer Devarim,

Or a record of nations smitten,

A heavenly scroll that sits before God,

Or an untitled book, not yet written?

Ibn Ezra, Rashi, Targum Yerushalmi, Rambam,

Chizkuni, Rokeach, and Onkelos,

Midrash Agaddah, Ohr HaChaim, Ramban,

They’ve each something different to tell us.

Korach

 בס״ד

Korach

He humbly held the high ground,

As Korach, of Kahath, accused,

‘Twernt enough to bear the kelim,

His ego had been bruised.

And many sons of Reuven,

Joined in Korach’s schism,

Since their status as b'chorim,

Had been passed to the Levi’im.

Bnai Yisrael watched in awe,

As Korach’s crowd was swallowed,

But then took up his charges, once again,

A deadly outbreak followed.

A Levi had brought this on them,

Aaron saved ‘em, in this instance,

So for Levi'im, now, an extra task,

To make sure they keep their distance.

Shelach

 בס״ד

Shelach

They had conquered everyone around,

yet balked at what was promised,

afraid of those whose time was up,

dared not battle for what was already theirs.

So, too, in our time, the same homeland,

that they feared to claim as their own, 

we hesitate to call ours, before a scolding world,

afraid to recognize our own borders.

We can blast far removed targets,

we endure warheads of death,

unspeakable brutality, unrelenting lies and hate,

the heroic sacrifices of a courageous generation.

Yet, preferring to be strangers in our own land,

we even cede our Har Habayit,

and permit it to become,

a place for our enemies to lay their plots.

And Yehuda and Shomron, 

Our heart, the heartland which cradled us,

Languish, orphaned, beyond an imaginary line,

A green smudge, recognized by no one, but ourselves.