Who is it that gazes upon me, unblinking, through all the stars of heaven and all the things of the earth? Close your eyes, O stars and things; look not upon my nakedness. Shame enough burns me through mine own eyes.
What is there for you to see? The tree of life, which has shrunk to a thorn by the roadside, that pricks both itself and others. What else — but a heavenly flame plunged into mud, that neither shines nor goes out?
Plowmen, it is not your plowing that is the main thing, but the Lord who watches.
Singers, it is not your singing that is the main thing, but the Lord who listens.
Sleepers, it is not your sleeping that is the main thing, but the Lord who keeps vigil.
It is not the little water in the shells around the lake that is the main thing; the lake is the main thing.
What is all the time of man but a single wave that wets the burning sand on the shore, and then repents of having left the lake, because it dried away?
O stars and things, look not at me but at the Lord with eyes. He alone sees. Look at Him, and you will see yourselves in your homeland.
Why should you gaze at me — at the image of your own exile? At the mirror of your hurrying transience?
O Lord, my beautiful cloth, bordered with golden Seraphim, descend upon me like a veil upon a widow, and gather up my tears, in which seethes the sorrow of all Thy creatures.
O Lord, my Beauty, come and be my guest. Lest I be ashamed of my nakedness. Lest the many thirsty glances that fall upon me return home thirsty.