Chapter 44

(To the choir-master. Melody: The Lilies. Of the sons of Core. A maskil. A love-song.)

Joyful the thoughts that well up from my heart, the King’s honour for my theme; my tongue flows readily as the pen of a swift writer.

Thine is more than mortal beauty, thy lips overflow with gracious utterance; the blessings God has granted thee can never fail.

Gird on thy sword at thy side, great warrior,

gird thyself with all thy majesty and all thy beauty; ride on triumphant, in the name of faithfulness and justice. Dread counsel thy own might shall give thee;

so sharp are thy arrows, subduing nations to thy will, daunting the hearts of the king’s enemies.

Thy throne, O God, endures for ever and ever, the sceptre of thy royalty is a rod that rules true;

thou hast been a friend to right, an enemy to wrong, and God, thy own God, has given thee an unction to bring thee pride beyond any of thy fellows.

Thy garments are scented with myrrh, and aloes, and cassia; from ivory palaces there are harps sounding in thy honour.

Daughters of kings come out to meet thee; at thy right hand stands the queen, in Ophir gold arrayed.

(Listen, my daughter, and consider my words attentively; thou art to forget, henceforward, thy own nation, and the house of thy father;

thy beauty, now, is all for the king’s delight; he is thy Lord, and worship belongs to him.)

The people of Tyre, too, will have its presents to bring; the noblest of its citizens will be courting thy favour.

She comes, the princess, all fair to see, her robe of golden cloth,

a robe of rich embroidery, to meet the King. The maidens of her court follow her into thy presence,

all rejoicing, all triumphant, as they enter the king’s palace!

Thou shalt have sons worthy of thy own fathers, and divide a world between them for their domains.

While time lasts, mine it is to keep thy name in remembrance; age after age, nations will do thee honour.