בס״ד
Lech Lecha
It seems to me, from Adam on,
There’s little time to rest,
Any place we feel at home,
Is temporary, at best.
Avram must leave his country,
A place where he is known,
And be uprooted from his birthplace,
The field where he was sown.
And last of all, his father’s house,
Though he’s the youngest son,
He could have lived a cushy life,
Up there in old Haran.
It’s no small thing to pull up roots,
But stability is an illusion,
Our fortunes are like a water wheel,
A flood of time allusion.
At mabul’s end, our land calls out,
Like Lech Lecha, above,
A place, at last, our foot to rest,
Like Noach’s ivory dove.
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