My students, so taken by the scene, formed a half circle facing the view and began to sing, “Esa einai el heharim”
Afew months ago, I chaperoned an overnight tiyul with Tomer Devorah Seminary. We traveled down to Eilat to give the students a much-needed break. On the way home, our group made a Minchah pit stop at a lookout point southwest of Jerusalem, known as Mitzpeh Masuah. Before us was a stunning view complete with a burning red sun sinking into the Mediterranean. We took in the breathtaking sight of hills and valleys, forests and roads, which incidentally stretch all the way to Gaza. You couldn’t miss it; the smoke puffs looked as though they were rising from the sea, but we knew it was the remnants of our soldiers doing their job with courage and strength.
My students, so taken by the scene, formed a half circle facing the view and began to sing, “Esa einai el heharim.” We lift our eyes toward the expanse around us, the mighty mountains, the vast unknown beyond what we can even see, and we ask: Me’ayin yavo ezri? Where will our help come from?
The word “me’ayin” is usually translated as “from where.” It’s a question: “Where will our help and salvation arise from?” And the following verse of the perek gives the answer, “Ezri me’im Hashem….”
But the word ayin can also mean “nothing.” The pasuk is making a statement: We can rely on absolutely nothing — not the mountains, not the valleys, not the forests — nothing in our physical world, to be our salvation. Then the following line buttresses the point — our salvation is from one place, and one place alone: Hashem.
Create a free account to keep reading.
