Psalm 102 is a prayer spoken in the voice of the people in exile. Rashi explains "A prayer of the afflicted" - the Jewish people, who are impoverished, an afflicted nation. The Radak explains that this psalm is voiced on behalf of the exiles: as though each and every individual in exile stands and prays in this manner before Hashem, blessed be He. In this chapter, the nation is portrayed in its most desperate state, and from the depths of that abyss, it pours out its heart before its Creator.
תְּפִלָּה לְעָנִי כִי־יַעֲטֹף וְלִפְנֵי יְהֹוָה יִשְׁפֹּךְ שִׂיחוֹ׃ - A prayer of the afflicted when he faints, and pours out his complaint before Hashem.
What does "ki ya'atof" mean? It is an expression denoting one who is enwrapped in his distress, as in "their soul faints (titatef) within them," or "those who faint (ha'atufim) from hunger." The Radak offers a beautiful explanation: when a person is in distress, he curls up, as though wrapping himself in himself, folding into his own body - which is why this is called "atifah" (wrapping or fainting). Rashi explains that his soul is enveloped in anguish. And "pours out his complaint before Hashem" - the Ibn Ezra explains: he pours out everything in his heart. Even today we use this expression: "he poured out his whole heart."
The Malbim explains that this is a prayer for the people of the exile, both for each individual and for the entire nation: their soul is enveloped by the multitude of troubles until, as it were, the soul is about to depart from the body, as we will see later in the chapter. And even before his soul leaves his body, he pours out his plea and begs Hashem to bring him out of exile and grant him salvation.
The Maharas of Belz homiletically expounds here on the immense greatness of the poor man's prayer. Chazal interpret the verse, "Who has preceded Me, that I should repay him?" - Who made a mezuzah for Me before I gave him a house? From whom did I require tithing terumot and ma'asrot before I gave him a field? To whom did I say to build a parapet before I gave him a roof? No person precedes the Holy One, blessed be He. Yet there is one who does precede Him - the poor man. In terms of possessions, the Holy One, blessed be He, gave him nothing, and yet he stands and prays out of his poverty. It turns out that he preceded the Holy One, blessed be He: he prays before Hashem even before Hashem gave him anything. And this is "and before (lifnei) Hashem he pours out his complaint" - even before Hashem gave him anything, he already pours out his plea, and therefore his prayer is worthy of acceptance.
Indeed, it is written in sacred works that there are prayers that are not answered quickly, and there are prayers that are answered immediately. The Holy Zohar says that the prayer of the poor man is answered immediately, and the reason is: "Who has preceded Me that I should repay?" - because he preceded the Holy One, blessed be He, before anything was bestowed upon him, he merits this. There is also an allusion to this: there is a dispute in the Gemara regarding the meaning of "atuf," and Rabbi Yochanan's opinion is that "and the atufim belonged to Lavan" refers to the early-born, meaning the earliest of the flock. If so, "A prayer of the afflicted when he ya'atof" - the virtue of the poor man is that he "ya'atof," that he precedes the Holy One, blessed be He, in his prayer, and therefore Hashem says to him: You preceded Me before I gave you anything; you are worthy to receive your reward.
יְהֹוָה שִׁמְעָה תְפִלָּתִי וְשַׁוְעָתִי אֵלֶיךָ תָבוֹא׃ - Hashem, hear my prayer, and let my cry come to You.
This is the beginning of the prayer: even before he prays, he asks that his prayer be accepted. The Ibn Ezra raises a difficulty: Is He not the "Hearer of prayer," and is it not known that every prayer is heard - so what is the need for this request? One could suggest that there are times when an iron barrier separates Israel from their Father in Heaven, as it is written, "He shut out my prayer," meaning that prayers are not received, and therefore we ask, "Hashem, hear my prayer." But the Ibn Ezra explains that the intention here is that people should see that the prayer was heard - for Hashem may indeed hear and accept your prayer, yet it is not visibly evident on the outside.
To give an example: one of the Torah luminaries lay on his deathbed, many prayers were offered for his recovery, and ultimately he passed away. Someone said to the Brisker Rav: "We prayed and were not answered." He replied: "How do you know you were not answered? You were answered - with a 'no.' You asked the Master of the World to leave this tzaddik with us, and Hashem said no. 'No' is also an answer." What you want will not necessarily materialize in the end; when you ask for something, Hashem can say "no." And this is what the Ibn Ezra means: I do not want an answer of that sort, but rather a response where it will be visible that You answered me - that they see the salvation, that they see that what I prayed for was granted.
The Radak cites the Midrash Shocher Tov: "'Do not place my axomia in a ring, but let it rise and bear fruit.' 'Axomia' means a dispute or grievance (and has no connection to the word axiom). That is: let my grievance be revealed before You, hear my dispute, and champion my cause. I have a dispute with the nations - You, Hashem, fight my battle. And my request is that You not place my grievance, as it were, inside a sealed ring where it is closed away and ignored, but rather that the matter come before You and You act to save me.
The Malbim distinguishes between tefillah (prayer) and shav'ah (outcry). The term "tefillah" is used exclusively in relation to God, defined as the pouring out of the soul and cleaving to God, one's stronghold. In contrast, "shav'ah" is the cry of someone pleading for salvation. As noted earlier, the word tefillah is related to petilah (a wick): a wick is made of several strands twisted (mefutalot) together, bound into one. In the same way, through prayer we bind ourselves to the Creator of the world. For this reason, prayers were instituted in place of the sacrifices, for the essence of a sacrifice (korban) is closeness (keruv) - through the sacrifice one draws close to Hashem, and through prayer one is intertwined and bound to Him, in the sense of "With divine wrestlings have I wrestled" (naftulei Elokim niftalti). Thus: "Hear my prayer" - the outpouring of my soul and my cleaving to You, what I cry out on behalf of the community; "and my cry for help" - what I cry out for my personal salvation, may that too, Master of the Universe, come before You.
אַל־תַּסְתֵּר פָּנֶיךָ מִמֶּנִּי בְּיוֹם צַר־לִי הַטֵּה־אֵלַי אׇזְנֶךָ בְּיוֹם אֶקְרָא מַהֵר עֲנֵנִי׃ - Hide not Your face from me on the day of my distress; incline Your ear to me; on the day I call, answer me speedily.
Ibn Ezra explains this metaphorically: a person who hides his face cannot see, yet he can still hear. Therefore the psalmist asks: Do not hide Your face from me, and even if You do hide it, at the very least "incline Your ear to me," for even one who hides his face can still hear. The Radak adds that this phrasing is based on the verse in the Torah, "And I will hide My face from them, and they shall be devoured" - a reality in which the Holy One, blessed be He, brings about a concealment of His face (hester panim), and Heaven forbid, Israel becomes devoured by the nations.
This, as is known, is what occurred during the Holocaust. People often ask where the Holy One, blessed be He, was during the Holocaust, and the answer is that He was not there - and He Himself forewarned of this in advance: "And I will hide My face from them" - there will be a concealment of the Divine face; I will not be there. "And they shall be devoured" - and when I am not there, they will be utterly consumed. That was the tragic reality, yet it came with prior warning. That very curse was fulfilled in us, says the Radak, and therefore we plead: Hide Your face no longer; answer me speedily.
The Malbim explains that there are two separate requests here. The first is "Hide not Your face" - turning one's face denotes Divine providence (hashgachah): Master of the Universe, watch over me, see what is happening to me, and hear my cry. The second is "Answer me speedily" - also respond and act, for the Holy One, blessed be He, could look at a person's situation and say, "He deserves this." Therefore I plead: save me, grant my request.
כִּי־כָלוּ בְעָשָׁן יָמָי וְעַצְמוֹתַי כְּמוֹקֵד נִחָרוּ׃ - For my days vanish like smoke, and my bones are charred like a hearth.
The Radak explains: just as something that burns vanishes into smoke and goes to total destruction, so too have my days ended in misery. A moked (hearth) is the place where a fire is kindled, as in the Beit HaMoked in the Beit HaMikdash, the place where the fire burns continually. And nacharu means scorched or burned, related to the expressions "My anger burned (charah) against him" and "the rivers dried up (charvu)" - denoting burning and scorching. In other words, my bones are like a place where fire burns continuously, and they have been scorched and consumed.
The Malbim explains that this verse clarifies why he asked, "Answer me speedily." When is immediate salvation needed? When even a moment's delay means there will be no one left to save. I ask for haste because I have already reached the brink of utter ruin. The psalmist then depicts the distress as fire, and the entire body of the nation as something cast into the flames. As is known, fire disintegrates matter and melts it down, and as the parts separate, they go up in smoke. Master of the Universe, my days have already vanished into smoke from the intensity of the fire consuming them, and the bones that still remain in me are charred like something placed at the very center of a blaze - nacharu meaning burned, in the passive nifal conjugation.
הוּכָּה־כָעֵשֶׂב וַיִּבַשׁ לִבִּי כִּי־שָׁכַחְתִּי מֵאֲכֹל לַחְמִי׃ - Stricken like grass, my heart is withered, for I have forgotten to eat my bread.
The Radak explains: when the sun beats down on moist grass, it dries it out. Grasses are the first to wither with the onset of summer, and so too my heart has withered like grass. And why? "For I have forgotten to eat my bread" - out of the depth of my anguish, I even forget to eat. As is known, when people suffer deep distress and depression, it strips away their appetite and desire to eat. And what sustains the heart? Food, as in the idiom "sustain one's heart" (sa'ad et libo). Since I am steeped in such profound sorrow that I have forgotten to eat, my heart has naturally become like grass, which is the first to wither when the sun beats down.
The Malbim explains that the psalmist describes himself as a plant beaten and withered by the sun, where the heart is the seat of life. "Stricken like grass and withered" - the heart has ceased drawing its nourishment from the body. For the Holy One, blessed be He, placed a faculty in the stomach (the digestive system) that arouses hunger and prompts a person to eat. As is known, the stomach produces gastric juices, and an internal signal passes from the stomach to the brain announcing that the person is hungry. Note that this signaling is also tied to routine: hunger is typically aroused at regular mealtimes. If someone is preoccupied with his affairs and was hungry, but his customary mealtime passes - for example, he usually eats at two o'clock and it is now three or four - the sensation subsides and he no longer feels the hunger he felt before. This is what King David is saying: in my case, this natural urge has been forgotten entirely, to the point that I am not prompted to eat bread at all. The spark has gone out, and I feel no appetite whatsoever - and this causes "my heart to be stricken like grass and withered."
מִקּוֹל אַנְחָתִי דָּבְקָה עַצְמִי לִבְשָׂרִי׃ - From the sound of my groaning, my bone clings to my flesh.
From the intensity of my crying out, my flesh has dried up and wasted away, until the bone clings to the flesh. Anyone who wishes to understand this reality need only look at photographs from the Holocaust - it is horrifying and shocking to see actual living skeletons, skin and bones. The Radak notes: It is well known that groaning emaciates the flesh; heartache wastes away the body.
The Gemara relates an incident involving Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai: he saw a man who had put one shoe on his foot and could not remove it, nor could he manage to put on the second shoe. Rabban Yochanan said to him: You must have heard good news, as it is written, "Good tidings fatten the bone" (Mishlei 15:30) - your bone expanded, which is why you cannot put on the second shoe, nor can you pull off the first, as the bone fills the shoe. The man asked him: What should I do? He answered: Have someone you dislike, an enemy of yours, pass before you, for it is written, "A broken spirit dries up the bone" (Mishlei 17:22), causing the bone to shrink, and then you will see the shoe come off easily. And that is indeed what happened. We see from here that groaning and heartache emaciate and shrivel the flesh; and when accompanied by crying out, all the more so does the flesh waste away until it clings to the bones. So too the verse in Eichah: "Their skin shriveled on their bones; it became as dry as wood" (Eichah 4:8) - the skin shriveled and dried over their bones due to the immense suffering that befell them.
Seemingly, it should have said, "my bone clings to my skin," for it is the skin that clings to the bone; why then does it say "to my flesh"? The Radak explains: A person's skin is considered like his flesh, and it cannot be flayed from the flesh like the hide of an animal. We similarly find in Chazal regarding the eight creeping creatures (sheratzim) that their skin is treated like their flesh. There are animals whose skin is like part of the meat, and there are those whose hide is separate. Look, for instance, at the underside of a cow or an ox, and you will see that the hide hangs somewhat loose, like a garment distinct from the body. This is not the case with a deer, regarding which the Gemara states that its skin is taut, and once flayed it cannot fit back on because the hide contracts. In human beings, the skin and flesh are one, and the skin is not peeled away as an independent layer. Therefore, the verse mentions "flesh" instead of "skin," just as in other places skin is mentioned instead of flesh: "It shall devour the members of his skin" (Iyov 18:13), meaning his flesh, yet Scripture nonetheless calls it "his skin."
The Malbim explains: "From the sound of my groaning, my bone clings to my flesh" - the flesh of the intestines clings to the bones because of the groaning, and this is why a person loses his appetite, as the digestive faculty is disabled and he has no desire to eat, as it is written in Iyov: "My bone clings to my skin and to my flesh, and I have escaped by the skin of my teeth" (Iyov 19:20). Thus, there is a vicious cycle here: out of depression and sorrow, I have no desire to eat, which shuts down the nutritive faculty and the drive for nourishment, and consequently I sink even deeper into depression, which further causes "my bone clings to my flesh" - like an unstoppable snowball.
דָּמִיתִי לִקְאַת מִדְבָּר הָיִיתִי כְּכוֹס חֳרָבוֹת׃ - I am like a pelican of the wilderness; I have become like an owl of the ruins.
"Ka'at" is the name of a bird, appearing here in construct form: the ka'at of the wilderness. And "kos" is the bird known as the owl or cormorant, which dwells in ruined, deserted places. That is to say, I have resembled the ka'at that dwells in the wilderness and the kos that lives among the ruins. The allegory is that as exiles, we are constantly tossed from place to place, like the ka'at that has no settled habitat but wanders the desert, and like the kos that does not dwell in a permanent home, but in ruins.
The Radak adds that the ka'at is what the Mishnah calls "kik," whence the term "kik oil" (shemen kik). It is a desert bird whose cry is a sound of wailing, like a lamentation - "I will take up a weeping and wailing" (Yirmiyahu 9:9) - the sound of a person lamenting and weeping. This is the meaning of "I am like a pelican of the wilderness": my voice resembles the cry of that desert bird. Similarly, "I have become like an owl of the ruins," whose cry is also a sound of lamentation, sorrow, and despair. The Radak offers an additional explanation: in my state of exile, I am like one who speaks only with the birds dwelling in the desert - they are my sole companions, the only beings with whom I can converse.
The Malbim explains the progression of these images. First, "I am like a pelican of the wilderness": the pelican sustains itself on fish, and therefore must travel every day from the desert to the rivers, a long journey, to obtain its food. So it is with me: I dwell in the wilderness, far from human habitation, and must slip into populated areas in secret and stealth to seek my sustenance, because I am constantly pursued. This was also King David's reality when he was pursued by Shaul - only at night and at times when he did not fear capture could he venture into populated areas to find something to eat. Afterward, when the burden of exile eased slightly and I was permitted to approach civilization, I was still not allowed to live inside the city itself, but rather was "like an owl of the ruins" - relegated to the ruins outside the cities, in segregated quarters, what one might call ghettos, but residing within the city proper was forbidden to me.
שָׁקַדְתִּי וָאֶהְיֶה כְּצִפּוֹר בּוֹדֵד עַל־גָּג׃ - I lie awake and have become like a solitary bird upon a roof.
Rashi explains: I looked at myself and saw that I was like a solitary bird upon a roof, sitting alone without a mate. People usually speak of "a pair of doves," yet here I find myself entirely alone. Ibn Ezra adds: I remained watchful and solitary in one place with none of my family beside me - even my relatives, whom I would naturally expect to come to my aid, are not with me.
Ibn Ezra comments on the phrasing: "K'tzippor boded" uses the masculine form "boded," rather than the feminine "bodedet"; yet in the Torah we find the feminine form - "et hatzippor ha'achat" (Vayikra 14:5). There are several words that can be used as either masculine or feminine: ruach (wind/spirit) - "a great and strong wind (ruach gedolah v'chazak) tearing down mountains" (Melachim I 19:11), using both feminine and masculine adjectives; and similarly machaneh (camp) - "If Esav comes to the one camp (hamachaneh ha'achat, feminine) and strikes it, then the remaining camp (hamachaneh hanish'ar, masculine) will escape" (Bereishit 32:9), where the very same verse uses feminine in one clause and masculine in the next; and likewise safah (language/lip) - "safah berurah" in the feminine (Tzefanyah 3:9), yet elsewhere masculine. Ibn Ezra formulated a rule here - one that was mentioned previously and was not accepted by later grammarians, yet is worth knowing: whatever lacks the breath of life can be treated as either masculine or feminine. That is, regarding inanimate objects, such as a table, theoretically one could use either gender. But when dealing with living creatures, such as a male or female dog, one must strictly distinguish masculine and feminine. As noted, his view was not accepted, for today we strictly maintain grammatical gender even for inanimate objects.
The Radak explains the expression shakadti (I have watched / persevered): shekidah means diligence and constancy in something, just as we say today that a person diligently applies himself (shoked) to a certain matter, meaning he is constantly engaged in it. Similarly, "the watchman stays alert (shaked) and waits"; "a leopard is watching (shoked) over their cities"; "to watch (lishkod) daily at my doors" - constant involvement in something, as in saying one is diligent in his studies (shoked al limudo), persevering in study. And here: I was constantly vigilant in exile, and wherever I go I find myself alone among foreigners, like a bird that has separated from its companions and sits alone on the rooftop, not entering inside the house out of fear that they will catch it. So it is with me: even when I sit in a house, and even in my own land, I am always in a state where I might have to flee into exile, constantly fearing that they might capture me.
And the Malbim continues the progression of stages: First, he described being in the desert; afterward, we were permitted to approach the cities, though not into the cities themselves but only their outskirts; and finally, "I have watched" (shakadti) - through great diligence and effort, this decree was also eased, and I was permitted to dwell in the city, but not inside a home, rather "like a solitary bird on a roof": in the corners of the roof and in isolation. That is, they still did not grant me the rights due to me as a human being; rather, I was always in the status of one pursued and always downtrodden among the nations. And this is the description of the condition of Klal Yisrael throughout the exile.
כׇּל־הַיּוֹם חֵרְפוּנִי אוֹיְבָי מְהוֹלָלַי בִּי נִשְׁבָּעוּ׃ - All day long my enemies taunt me; those who mock me swear by my name.
"All day long my enemies taunt me" - throughout the entire exile. "Those who mock me" (meholalai) - people who speak words of mockery and derision against me, to the point that "they swear by my name" (bi nishba'u). And what does "they swear by my name" mean? The Radak explains: similar to "the Lord make you a curse and an oath" (Bamidbar 5:21), meaning a person says, "May what happens to the Jews happen to me if I do such-and-such." When someone wishes to invoke a curse upon himself, he uses the Jews as an example. And Rashi explains: they saw my affliction and swear by me, saying, "I swear that such-and-such is true, and if not, may evil befall me just as evil befell Israel." That is to say, I have become a proverb and a byword for trouble, suffering, and persecution: "So may it be done to me as was done to Israel."
We have already explained that the word meholalai comes from dual roots that carry two opposite meanings, much like lesharesh and lehashrish - on one hand, to uproot from the root, and on the other hand, to take root and bond to the ground. Similarly, meholal can mean praise and acclaim, or derision and mockery. So too the word keles: "to praise, exalt, and laud (lekales)" is praise, whereas "I have become an object of ridicule and mockery (ve-keles)" is disgrace. Here, meholalai has the meaning of those who act wildly against me and mock me, and they swear by my name - demonstrating how truly dire the state of Israel was.
כִּי־אֵפֶר כַּלֶּחֶם אָכָלְתִּי וְשִׁקֻּוַי בִּבְכִי מָסָכְתִּי׃ - For I have eaten ashes like bread, and mingled my drink with weeping.
The Radak explains that this is a metaphor: bread seems like ashes in my mouth; I taste the flavor of ashes in it. An example of this: "He has also broken my teeth with gravel stones, He has covered me with ashes" (Eichah 3:16) - when describing a person brought to the absolute lowest state, it is said that his teeth were broken with gravel, meaning he was forced to eat gravel. Here too, "I have eaten ashes like bread" - the bread I ate tasted like ashes.
"And my drink" (veshikuvi) - here it is spelled with a vav vocalized with a patach, whereas in another verse, "my oil and my drink" (veshikuyai), it is written with two yuds and a quiescent vav. The Radak explains that shikui includes all types of beverages: wine, milk, water - everything I drink is mingled (masuch) with my tears, like wine diluted with water. Masuch means mixed, and limsoch means to blend (limzog). We have already explained several times that the word mezigah in Lashon HaKodesh does not mean simply pouring as it is commonly used today: someone who says "pour (tizmog) me a soda" is being inaccurate, and the correct term would be "pour out (te'areh) for me." Saying "blend (tizmog) milk into my instant coffee" - that is true mezigah. It is like saying today that two companies have merged (hitmazgu), meaning they became blended together. Mezigah is the mixing of two distinct things, which is why it applies specifically to wine: in antiquity, wine was thick, strong, and hard to drink neat, so they would dilute it with water - typically two parts water to one part wine - to make it drinkable. And this is "I mingled" (masachti), meaning I diluted/mixed, as in "she has mingled her wine" (Mishlei 9:2), having diluted the wine with water.
The Malbim explains the connection between the verses: I was not treated among them like a man of sorrows who evokes pity, or where seeing his distress at least leads people to refrain from taunting him. Rather, "all day long my enemies taunt me" - and for what did they taunt me? "For I mingled my drink with weeping," because I constantly weep over the Destruction, and that is what angered them. "And those who mock me swear by my name" - and they would deride me, "for I have eaten ashes like bread" out of famine, having suffered such intense hunger that the bread tasted like ashes in my mouth.
Why should the nations care that I weep over the Destruction? The answer is: as long as the Jewish people weep over the Destruction, it is a sign that they are destined to be redeemed. The moment we stop weeping over the Destruction, it is a sign that we have despaired of redemption. This is like the famous story of Napoleon, who once passed by a synagogue on the night of Tisha B'Av and heard sounds of weeping and wailing. He entered and asked what had happened, and they told him that the Temple had been destroyed. He asked: "Where? How much does it cost? We will arrange funding from the government, take up a collection, and rebuild it. Which street are we talking about?" They told him, "No, this happened nearly two thousand years ago." He said, "Nearly two thousand years ago, and you are still weeping over it? If you weep over a House destroyed so many centuries ago, I have no doubt that it is destined to be rebuilt."
We have already explained in the name of Rav Shimshon Pincus: What was so dreadful about "Zion shall be plowed like a field" (Michah 3:12)? After they had already destroyed the Beis HaMikdash, what difference did it make whether they plowed the site or not? He explained: as long as people could see the ruin, the burnt ground, and the charred stones, it inspired a deep yearning to rebuild the Beis HaMikdash. But the nations did here what was done at Auschwitz - they turned it into a landscaped garden. "Zion shall be plowed like a field" - they plowed it over and planted crops, so that anyone seeing it today cannot tell at all that a Beis HaMikdash once stood there; he sees only a very lovely landscape. And that causes no one to be stirred with the desire to rebuild it. This is why you will often hear people distant from Torah for whom Jerusalem is already completely built: "Haven't you driven on Begin Highway, seen the light rail, seen the walls of Jerusalem illuminated at night in glorious light? This is 'Jerusalem rebuilt,' and all that is missing is 'a city that is bonded together'!" The very reality that they engineered a situation where the Destruction is imperceptible - that itself is part of the Destruction, and it would be fitting to fast over the fact that the Destruction is no longer visible today, and because of this, we are not even stirred to yearn for its rebuilding.
A similar principle is found in the teachings of Chazal regarding a ruined synagogue: weeds that sprout there are not cleared away, and even if they are plucked, they are left lying in their place. Why? To evoke heartache, so that whoever sees it will feel deep anguish over the derelict state of the House of Hashem, which will inspire him to rebuild it. This is precisely what we are saying here: it troubles the nations to see me weeping over the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash, because if the Churban is still alive within me, still breathing and painful to me - it is a sure sign that I am destined to return.
Psalm 102 is the prayer of the afflicted man in exile, overwhelmed by his distress and pouring out his heart before his Creator. He pleads that his prayer be heard and that salvation be clearly seen, that Hashem not hide His face and hasten to answer him - for his days are consumed like smoke and his bones are scorched like a hearth, his heart is withered like grass from overwhelming grief until he has lost all appetite, and his flesh is so emaciated that his bones cleave to his skin. He portrays his wanderings like a pelican of the wilderness, an owl of the ruins, and a solitary bird on a roof, and he laments the reproach of the nations who have made his name a curse and a byword. From all of this emerges a central message: the supreme quality of the prayer of the afflicted who comes before his Creator, and the enduring power of weeping over the Churban - for as long as the destruction remains alive and aching in our hearts, it is certain that the House is destined to be rebuilt.