""Truly, how wonderful is the appearance of a high priest as he comes out of the Holy of Holies.".
And here is our 'Cohen' and 'work':
Truly, how wonderful was the sound of Maran's voice when he came before the Ark to pray the Selichot prayer. At Cheva Daat, at Yazdim, or at the Western Wall.
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The rabbi did not have a great voice, Yehiel Nahari and Moshe Chabusha probably had a higher, more refined voice. The rabbi also did not burst into tears with every three sections, or utter bitter cries during the confessional verses that shake the swordsmen's forearms. Perhaps other prayer leaders have 'it'.
He had a delicate voice, so delicate that it touched the thinnest strings "a delicate inclination from the delicacy of the soul.".
A stranger will not understand this.
I will venture to say:
Ashkenazi won't understand this.
I'm sorry. But you Ashkenazim didn't make it, you missed out on the experience of the Rabbi's 'God the King sits on a throne of mercy', as he begs with his voice with such soft curls
As you informed the poor coefficient And so it is written In your teachings
And the Lord came down' In the cloud
and will stand up With him there
And he called on the name of the Lord.'
And there spoken
The prayers continue, the rabbi calls out to his God in a velvety voice: "Mercifully, remember the eternal life of Abraham, merciful.".
The congregation responds: 'Return and pass over. Our God in heaven, cleanse us from our iniquities, cleanse us from our uncleanness. Our God, returnthatWater, the end of redemption is near, the end of salvation is near..""
The rabbi raises his voice a little, not shouting, it is difficult to convey this octave raise in the text, but The public understands and seems to respond to him – 'Amen' with the same melody. With an emphasis of emotion as if requested.
Really, how great!
The poem: To you, O Lord, I lift up my eyes.
You Spaniards know what I'm talking about,
Know well.
The Rabbi, unlike many cantors, sang in the usual tune until "Remember the poor and the downtrodden," and then:
'"They have hidden for me traps, bins, and traps, in which the steps of your friends are trapped," the rabbi's special one, which has today become common knowledge.
Like soft waterfalls of clean water on a depressed soul
'"From the highest heavens, have mercy on the sorrowful, and on the seed of the merciful, the children of your friend.".
Then, the rabbi breaks the sequence again with a new, silky melody.
'"Redeem your people, who are in turmoil, and who are like them, in exile, how many have your wanderers been satisfied.".
Several cantors, several prayer leaders, several poets, came on our behalf before the prayer. We all know the melody of the Selichot that we sang, its words we sang, and its requests we memorized, in the synagogues, in the separate prayer lists in the Ashkenazi yeshivahs, on Yom Kippur. They always touched us, always cleansed us.
But then the rabbi arrived, short in stature with dark glasses, standing with his head tilted slightly to the side, and opening with "Man, why are you sleeping?" and all the dams opened. Tears flowed.
Why? It's impossible to put your finger on the exact explanation.
The feeling was that we, the young men from the small yeshiva who arrived on the night of Eve of Kippur to "Yachva Da'at" in order to have time to do a ta'rat (removal of curses) before the holiday was consecrated, were going through it, he was smoothing out the bumps, penetrating the screens, calming the mental crises, and calming the frayed nerves.
We are part of the audience, of hundreds of thousands, and our prayer in some way connects to the quiet, gentle prayer of the rabbi.
Then everything is fine.
