My Lord, you are the Poet,
Who notes me with thy strong hands.
I can only aspire to know it
And extend thy word to all known lands.
You have set in me for the sun
A tabernacle for his regal throne,
From which he arises for his daily run
Throughout heaven's every zone.
Each morn I await his excellent ascent.
Onward with his golden lamp of God,
He begins at one end of the firmament
And runs on with the light of Aaron's rod.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem