From Aram, Balak made me come,
the King of Moab,
from the Eastern Mountains:
"Come, curse Jacob for me,
come, prophesy against Israel."
How shall I curse if God does not let me?
How shall I prophesy if God does not want it?
From the top of these crags I see them,
from the top of this peak I observe them:
this is a people different from all nations!
How beautiful are your tents,
how beautiful, O Israel!
How beautiful are your tents,
how beautiful, O Israel!
La la la la…
Who shall count your multitudes?
Jacob, O Jacob,
Jacob, O Jacob?
How beautiful are your tents…
"But what are you doing?
You are blessing them!
Come see from another place,
maybe from there God will curse them."
"Listen, son of Zippor,
hear me, King Balak.
God is not a man
who speaks and then repents.
A star is rising from Jacob;
I hear acclamations for a King,
God, God is his father:
he crouches like a lion,
he lies down like a lioness,
no one will make him rise."
How beautiful are your tents…
"Let my death be
like the death of your Just One,
let my life be where he is."
How beautiful are your tents...