Nisibis 29

The son of his voice. For Jerusalem I was weeping, making bitter with tears. A mother of doves whose nestlings were dwelling in her. Have mercy on your church, whose nestlings are divided within her. A help: have mercy on me, for I was a reproach to the foreigner. And the sins of one against another, that they might be divided, helped. They were dwelling in one pasture, and the sons of the world were. That they might complete one debt; they divided one truth. Serpents came, devourers of their brothers, and they had mercy on their companions, and they said to their brothers, "They were fathers," and they helped against the pastor of the midst. To Jerusalem I said that she would be darkened in mystery. A mother of her saviors was darkened beneath her stones. Your truth, my Lord, will darken my children beneath the stones. Show to Samuel when the fools cast him out, that in him the people and your church cast out for you, my Lord, in your mystery. That they cast out your priest for me in him; my children helped. And because I knew that it was a sacrifice of the cross, you did not give me a boy, a pastor who is vile and contemptible, who would follow that cross quickly to childhood. In old age they mock me; in poverty they divide me. Even nature, my Lord, does not give that it approach. The word of the cross quickly to old age. He did not set them with him; he did not watch with them. That the old man over the youths is full in his wakefulness. My request that they come, my Lord, with him to understanding. The poor and the rich, the equal and the noble, the gentle and the strong, the humble and the violent, that when he increased in his humility, they rested and were kindled.

In the man who was filled with mercy, my Lord, who is without mercy, who made your fathers and your mothers into Pharisees, they made me an old man, an old woman, a laughingstock, and they made me without weeping, so that I do not know where my end has reached, that my youth was honored and my old age was despised. My children went away from me, and I became a disgrace to the crucifiers. My gates were closed, and they separated and left me for the burning, while the pagans celebrated because of them before my face. Every man with his finger today shows me, "Behold, my perfect and righteous ones have been led astray, who made me a perfect one, sealed within the world, and I who was an object of wonder became a reviler of myself, that each one, by his conduct, honored me in the assemblies. The pagans and the strangers honored me because of them. Today, even from my own, behold, my Lord, I am rejected by every man. Where have my fasts and my feasts reached, with their fasts? The faithful to good deeds, eager in liturgies, there is no taste for that which has no salt. With one of them, a king was able to be healed, and with two, to be revealed, and the King of kings rejoiced. I chose the daughter of your servant, each one for your sacrifice. The workers of your wood, my perfect and sweet fruits, their taste was truth and their sweetness was love. Today, my fruits have withered, for winter has come upon me, a hidden and stormy winter with its snows and its frosts, for the vine, the shoot of its mother, the root of its stock, it was sick in its shoot and ailing in its beginning. Beauty conquered and prevailed over the leaves that were in that time.

The fruits of the days are many in their ripeness. Beloved of the first ones, with the error of the days, the summers were winters and they destroyed the canons, and the fruits were astonished and stood, and again they changed their tastes. For he heard in the sound of the bell that the first fruit in all the orchard, the fruit for the last old man, the last brother, the winter, its scent and its taste in it surpass and conquer it. For this fruit of the days that ripened in the midst of summer, fill my presses and pour out wine that does not ferment, and like one that is not new, whose debt is peace and old, from the new, my Lord, my stirrer, and the old, the wine that is new ferments, and that which is aged is mild. The wine of this generation, my stirrer, in both, its debt does not ferment, its taste is not mild, and instead of being worthy to ferment in its sweetness, in anger alone it ferments, which turns to wrath. For you, then, it is clear: the end is a tear. It is not just, my Lord, that winter is very cold, the north wind has blown much, and in it the south wind called, and it is the north wind of drought that has done evil to me, and as though the disciples stirred you up in the midst of the sea, I arose and with your voice I cut off the storm. Hear, my Lord, the voice of tears that are restrained, stirring you, from the south wind it is written, my Lord, that you came and settled them. The girdle of the Egyptians, and pay the lip of the people. Hasten, make summer, joyful, that makes me joyful, in it my fruits will ripen, in it my seeds will be heard, in it my offerings will be fair, in it my sorrows will pass, in it my mourners will be complete, and in it my feasts will be glad.

The fruits of the days are many in their ripeness. One in a hundred of the fruits of your goodness, that is the surplus, comes like a great one to the land which, in its idleness, harvest in winter. Famine was hidden and the true grain was small, and they ground bread of debt and from their famine came a fire. They were scattered to all sides and were cast to all corners. To the place which my Lord desires, your storehouse full of satiety, that he might open the storehouse of Joseph to the famines. One in a hundred fills your storehouse for my faith. Give to me and increase for me the satiety of your teaching. A fast of thirty comes, debt in sixty. Your truth comes alone in a hundred with all goods. You are the one who said, "Repay the debts which eat the locust." The creeping thing and the cricket, my Lord, repay me more, for the hidden locust eats it and its seed, my faith. The land of the disputers, the field of their wanderers, ceased in a spirit of my error and became famine to itself. A hand which did not hear the truth, the son of its wakefulness. Plow like a cherub my lands and err and three, my Lord. For also in a third manner you immersed and revived it, the land of our souls and the Church of our spirits. And they erred and also three times the apostles sowed and reaped. And from that writing it was brought and came, and the land became rich with the storehouse of teaching. And just as also its root sends forth a shoot to its sides, so also it sends forth again until your coming. With the swords of kings it was not possible to cut it. How much, my Lord, was given to you, many small ones for you, and how much will be given to me again, the question of my wakefulness.

Your goodness is hidden from your own night; your righteousness thirsts for your own day. Let my pasture be your land, its threshing-floor in the name of your father, and its produce in the name of your son, three in the spirit of your holiness. And let the rock of praise ascend to your messenger, who has scattered my children for me and gathered my friends for me. Seek, my lord, a flying one, rejoicing in its wings, lest it cease in the voice of its beloved ones. Let the voice of your mother be recognized in your goodness, and let them hasten to my hunt, return and do for me. And come and show, my lord, a sign in one truth.