Sing, daughter;
Your enemies come across the hills
Resplendent in all of their power,
But they will not come near to you;
They will balk at this fortress.
Dance, Israel;
The battle is not over, yet
The heralds run across the hills,
The message of the victory bright
In their hearts to tell you.
Rejoice, captives;
See the strong man fall down, slain,
His army fleeing, frightened from
The stronghold of our mighty King.
Hear the trumpets sounding.
Bow, O people;
Wash yourselves; rise up clean
From the waters of this mercy;
Walk into the new day, hearts
Ripe with the fruit of this freedom.
The Consolations of Writing 