Nisibis 4

The voice of the cry of the oppressed, my God who does not weary, open the door of your house, so that I may ask for all goodness through your mercy, that I may receive through your grace. The cry: Hope is the beginning, for if the Lord of the earth forgives the confessed sin, how much more will the rich one in many things enrich? Therefore, my prayers through your goodness, with the voices of my children, the wretched and the mourners, open for me the door of your mercies, that I may rejoice in their voices, and mourn for their ascents. Through the remembrance of what was lacking, and it pressed upon the children, the wicked women bore children for the lambs that saw wolves, and behold, they are crying out. And the cry in the wilderness: My Lord, if you saw wolves, a pattern in the flock, being shorn with a staff, that pursues their devourers. Your flock saw wolves, and behold, a great cry, hasten, for your cross became a staff that pursues their swallowers. Receive my cry, my pure children in everything, that youth may find days to pasture, my Lord, for the ancient days. The day the wicked one fell within the city, on that day the watchers descended, they hoped for the peace that would be in my streets for all my children. Seventy-two elders, the elders of that people, did not suffice for the gates; the wicked one is the son of Mary, he spreads to every side. Show, my Lord, to my children through my parents; remember your child, that I was a child who resembles your youth, and show through your goodness. At night, within your flock, the cry of the perfect ones, and the voice of the cries that call to the shepherd, all that is like all, and he saves through the sign.

I shall make a crown of all voices, and bring it to your father, I shall offer it. Woe is me, for my neighbor and my kinsman have made me poor, whose feet are not worn out in the land of all eternity, while over my head he stands and is firm. Woe is me, for the guest has made me poor, who for me and my bread seeks to eat my lord; preserve him from the evil of hunger, that he may not go to theft. Woe is me, for the oppressor and the kinsman have made me poor; blessed is he who has made me poor, the lord and savior, who rebuked him and he rebuked the joy of the stumbling, the hidden oppression in it, the oppression of the darkness, it is the mixture of joys in that new world. Blessed is he who has quenched my pursuer, and the woes hidden in him, in the judgment he is joyful; I have found the woe which I quenched from him; blessed is he who has hidden it from me in him. The poor one who does not beget that which begets, and is able to beget again from within the hearings, the voices of the hopes. You are the one who heals all my sicknesses with your cures; the reward of your medicines I was not able to come, for which there is no likeness to them. Your rich mercies conquer your medicines; they are not able to be sold, they are given freely, they are acquired with tears. How much can my lord, the city of the treasury, whose king's son is far and whose enemy is near, stand without mercy? For the hundred and the house of the pit, you are in all time, when my seas are calm, your mercies descend to my calm; again, my help, help me. I have disturbed my spices, the medicine of your salvation, and the pain of your darkness, your life is able to be a medicine that heals all.

I am greatly distressed, I groan, and I bear a heavy burden, I groan. Because of what disturbs me, your love, O Lord, is my delight. The cup of my sins they have mixed. I longed for all the chosen ones, and I wept that I was shorn, while many good ones are my head and my redeemers. One is he who redeemed me. Fruitful, O Lord, and fruitful are my children, and they resemble the redeemers of the city; the pursuer has pursued, behold, they are hidden in a secret place. Your fruitful one, O Lord, is fruitful. The voice of my vineyards, behold, commands my hands that they should cut off their voices; thunder with hopes. The goodness of your redemption. The voice of the saw I heard upon the towers, which cries out, "My redeemers," while they guard my walls. Their peace with the voice of your fruitful one. The multitude of my laborers will send out to the son from my wall. The thunder of my inhabitants will send within from my wall, so that I may praise outside and within. Loosen, O Lord, the mourning of that pure altar of yours, and of your priest, the stone that stands clothed in mourning. From above, a sackcloth is pressed. Thanksgiving with your redemption, the church and its ministers, the city and its inhabitants; and, O Lord, the voice of the fruitful one. The reward of your voices.