Psalm 33, Patrice De La Tour Du Pin | translation by Jennifer Grotz

,

.

You make a drought in me, you depopulate me, you leave me

hollow enough to be the tomb that housed his death,

the death that was all your doing . . .

God who turns a settled man into a wanderer:

you’re the one I used to obey?

I loved you more simply when I was young.

My voice once praised you so happily!

Now it breaks because of your grace? my wrong?

I no longer know who’s the tormentor.

If it’s still to you that I cry out my anguish,

I’m sickened by the halting realization:

isn’t it you who tolls my heart like a funeral bell?

If it’s still you I confide in most intimately,

if I still dream of singing your nuptials,

is it from habit or actual love for you?

Why did you burden me with such a desire to praise

before you made me an angel,

why invest in someone who must be torn apart?

If only I understood your suffering, if only I could

strike down my sense of being broken to death

the better to resemble you.

But I’m afraid to cheat and worsen my debt . . .

a God like you wouldn’t ask for my head

and yet what else do I have to pay with?