הָלַם

For the fields of Heshbon have withered,along with the grapevines of Sibmah.The rulers of the nationshave trampled its choicest vines,which had reached as far as Jazerand spread toward the desert.Their shoots had spread outand passed over the sea.

Woe to the majestic crown of Ephraim’s drunkards,to the fading flower of his glorious splendor,set on the summit above the fertile valley,the pride of those overcome by wine.

The craftsman encourages the goldsmith,and he who wields the hammercheers him who strikes the anvil,saying of the welding, “It is good.”He nails it down so it will not be toppled.

Then the hooves of horses thundered—the mad galloping of his stallions.

She reached for the tent peg,her right hand for the workman’s hammer.She struck Sisera and crushed his skull;she shattered and pierced his temple.