LYRICAL ASPECTS OF SAMUEL THE THIRD’S POETRY Review Article of Joseph Yahalom and Naoya Katsumata (eds.), Yotserot of R. Samuel the Third: a Leading Figure in Jerusalem of the 10th Century, Jerusalem: Yad Yitshak Ben Tsvi, 2014, Two Volumes. Wout van Bekkum Samuel ben Hosha‘na the Third is an outstanding and important poet whose entire oeuvre has now been collected and edited, reclaiming a tradition of synagogue poetry which, in large part, had lapsed into the obscurities of medieval Jewish literary history. The reintroduction of Samuel the Third by Yahalom and Katsumata enables researchers of Piyyut to read Samuel’s hymns anew and to (re-)discover their richness and diversity. This new edition contains the full cycle of yotser compositions for each Sabbath, regular and special, and for each festival, introductory reshuyot in Aramaic for the reading of Haftarot and Targum, eulogies for the deceased, historical piyyutim, and even personal letters. The edition also identifies and completes various poems and letters which were known since the earliest publications of Jacob Mann (1920) and Israel Davidson (1928). A large majority of poems has been published here for the very first time. The editors, Joseph Yahalom and Naoya Katsumata, have carefully studied hundreds of Genizah manuscripts, noting many reading variants in individual poems. The arrangement of the edition follows the liturgical year. All poems are vocalised and provided with textual and explanatory notes. The substantial Hebrew introduction (unfortunately, an equivalent English introduction is lacking) covers the discussion of historical and political circumstances during Samuel’s life, his professional career, and his artistic abilities, placing emphasis on the language and structure of his yotzrot. No less relevant is the fact that Samuel the Third’s lyrical achievements herald the coming of the Spanish school of Hebrew poetry. Indices include a list of epithets, a list of weekly Torah portions and Haftarot, foreign words, neologisms, rabbinical sources, locations for manuscripts, and incipits of piyyutim. In this review I will focus on lyrical aspects representative of Samuel’s personal creativity by which he reveals Jewish religious themes. A study of Samuel’s lyrical potential will demonstrate that he views Piyyut as an innovative prestigious medium rather than a number of conventional synagogue repertoires. In dealing with lyrical aspects of Samuel’s poetry, I refer to Katsumata’s PhD dissertation, submitted in 2003, which concerned this paytan’s stylistic features, published shortly afterwards as volume five in the Hebrew Language and Literature Series by Styx-Brill. Katsumata’s book serves as an informative supplement to the edition of Samuel’s works, and in particular, the chapter on syntactic ways to enrich a poetic line. When combined with the online Historical Dictionary of the Hebrew Language–Ma’agarim, modern research is offered a new means by which to study the characteristics of Samuel’s figures of speech and rhetorical methods. Needless to say, Samuel operates with a self-consciousness in relation to his literary antecedents, particularly to Scripture, which he, like many other great medieval scholar/poets, knew virtually by heart. Be it prose or poetry, Scripture provided Samuel with recherch́ terms that would confer a special status on an account or an idea, but this of course can easily be said of other hymnists as well. Samuel went the extra mile, exploiting the scriptural phrase in both rhetorical and grammatical directions, as demonstrated by Katsumata’s observation that Samuel produced poetic lines more biblical than the biblical verses themselves. As I will show, this type of overbiblicisation is achieved by adding an absolute infinitive or deverbal noun of the same consonantal stem. The newness of his poetry may be helpful for establishing additional notions of what the literary conditions were in an elitist Mediterranean-Jewish milieu in the second half of the tenth century and early eleventh century. Which lyrical aspects were at issue in Samuel’s composition of Hebrew hymns that had such an obvious aesthetic pursuit and stylistic trends adequate to the subjects of Sabbath and festivals? Samuel seems a type of poet whose writing of verse constitutes a world in a language that was not spoken in real life; yet, he succeeded in creating a literary reality that would invite the listener or reader to become or remain involved in Jewish religious tradition and culture. Who was this man who can be historically associated with the main centres of Jewish learning and legislative activity at the time: Ramleh, Fustat, and Jerusalem? His paytanic oeuvre was to put down roots in Palestine, Egypt, and even Syria and Iraq, where it was destined to attain great status in liturgy and prayer. The edition demonstrates that Samuel’s poetic achievements were reached within the confines of a conventionalised structure like the yotser, although a number of formalistic adaptations were applied. His personal stamp has been put on ways of inserting alphabetical or name acrostics, the ways certain types of strophes and refrains are arranged, and modes of using Torah and Haftarah verses. This is, perhaps, not the main feature of Samuel’s poetry that makes him an exceptional paytan, because each of the synagogue hymnists add small elements of arrangement and adaptation to his individual works. Samuel’s main contribution is a novel Hebrew expressivity, which is at the same time a clear reflection of his individual approach towards Jewish religious culture. Samuel seems to be particularly endowed with an innate sense of language, a kind of Sprachgefühl for how Hebrew, and to a lesser extent, Aramaic can create a delicate idiom with a relish for semantic coloration and elegant sonority suitable for recitation or declamation by the chazzan, the synagogue cantor. Again, this was not a language anyone spoke, but given a comprehensive familiarity with biblical and rabbinic sources, Samuel may have counted on an audience whose acquaintance with synagogue liturgy and poetry met the poet’s invitation to learn and enjoy his yotserot for the weekly readings and the festivals. Moreover, studying Samuel’s literary heritage provides a rare opportunity to involve his personal history. He was quite a character, who aspired to the highest ordination close to patriarchy in the Jewish community at large and played a major role in the Jerusalem ‘supreme court’ or academy. This religious institution was ruled by the chavurah, a fellowship or council of notables (translated by Saul Lieberman as ‘college’) that exercised judicial authority for the Jewish community, or, perhaps, a Jewish commonwealth, were it not for the Geonic Babylonian academies that equally claimed authority and prevailed in many ways. Samuel’s biography is more extensive than any other contemporary hymnist who is reasonably well documented through a number of epistles and poems of historical purport. Shlomo Dov Goitein has already quoted from these accounts in his Mediterranean Society, and, similarly, Moshe Gil in his History of Palestine. The fashioning of his impressive corpus of yotserot is an astonishing chapter in the history of medieval Jewish hymnography, and it is here that we meet lyrical aspects, which, in Samuel’s hands, seem to have been impelled by strong ideas of technique and style in a clear awareness of the historical and religious role of the Hebrew language. How can we understand Samuel’s personal preference for the quality of expressivity when it comes to pervasive questions of syntax and idiom or diction and tone? Current approaches towards lyrical poetry may be helpful in adducing a number of assumptions related to poems usually composed and read for the sake of a religious message. In that case, to what extent is this message hidden in the composition and is a level of symbolic language involved? Alternatively, are any strong thoughts or feelings brought forward? If so, to what extent does a listener or reader have to decipher the contents in order to appreciate the message and enjoy the description of a given subject? At the surface level, Samuel’s language is embedded in an elaborate organization of lines and a clear-cut stanzaic structure. This reveals that his guf ha-yotser usually consist of four segments, each of which is concluded with a pizmon strophe. However, compositions intended for a Sabbath of an outstanding thematic importance follow a revised pattern of tercets with a concluding qadosh refrain, a guf yotser qiqlari or a cyclic type of yotser. Remarkably enough, in the extant corpus two parallel compositions exist for one specific liturgical destination: Sabbath Rosh Chodesh. The first is structured as a regular guf yotser and the second as a type of qiqlar. Subsequent segments of the standard yotser composition are equally subverted by Samuel, who took liberties with the ofan, slightly less with me’orot and ahavah, but certainly with the zulat and miy kamokha, the occasional adonay malkenu, and the final we-‘ad matay. At a deeper level within the variations of this structural framework, Samuel draws on biblical-midrashic materials in order to achieve serious representations of his themes, which are lyrical in the sense that he engages the listener and the reader in contextual apprehension of his poetic achievements. In terms of vocabulary, he works with an extended palette of literary Hebrew and Aramaic. Here are a few illustrative examples. In connection with parashat Bereshit, Samuel describes the creation of heaven as ‫( ִת ְק ַרת רּם מַ ְת ִקיר‬tiqrat rum matqir)—‘God frames the beams or ceiling on high’, using matqir as a verbal form derived from the noun tiqrah. In connection with parashat Noach, food supplies for the ark are described as ָ ְ‫( מַ ְטעוֹמֶ ת הֱ יוֹת ל‬mat‘omet heyot lekha)—‘to be a delicacy for you’, or simply ‘to be delicious’. In connection with parashat Bo, Samuel characterises the Pharao by the exotic expression ‫( גֵאּת חֲ נ ִֵסי בַ חֲ נ ְַסנְסֻ ת ֹו‬ge’ut chanesi bachanasnesuto), which is based on the name “Chanes” (Isa. 30:4) to indicate the Pharao’s arrogance in the name of his sun-idols. Samuel repeats this pun in the expression ‫חֲ נ ְַסנְ סֵ י חָ נֵס אֲ ַקצֵ ץ‬ (chanasnesey Chanes aqatsets), in reference to Lev. 26:30—‘I will cut down your incense altars’. In the Targum Onkelos, this phrase is rendered as ‫( ואקצץ ית חנסנסכון‬aqatsets yat chanasneskhon). When it comes to Aramaic, phrases based on an Aramaic-Targumic original are sporadically inserted, such as ‫ַר ָק ָתם‬ ְ ‫ֹהים ָשר‬ ִ ֱ‫( הָ א‬ha-Elohim shar arqatam – Noach)—‘God has seen their land’, or ‫ַר ָק ָתם‬ ְ ּ‫( פִ ְרחֵ י אֱ מּנֶיָ י ְִרש‬pirchey emuneykha yirshu arqatam – Shelach lekha)— ‘The blossom of your faithful will inherit their land’, or ‫( ַקבְ לּת ִחיפָ ַתם‬qavlut chippatam) – ‘darkness has covered them’ (Beshalach). A clear example of the lexical stretching of Aramaic vocabulary can be found in Samuel’s acrostic introductory verse preceding the reading from the Prophets on what is probably intended for Shavu‘ot. The first line is ‫אהודה ואשבח לאלהא קדישא‬ ‫( וצדיקא‬ahudah we-eshbach le-Elaha qadisha we-tzadiqa)—‘Let me thank and praise the holy and righteous God’. Particularly, the rhyming words in the ensuing lines are rare. One encounters words like ‫( פימוסקא‬pimosqa), ‫( נגהקא‬naghaqa), and ‫( אושבקא‬ushbaqa), and the two editors had a hard time offering reasonable explanations for such invented words with the rhyme ending -qa. However, for the most part they found suitable parallels in the Talmud and the Targum. As for Samuel’s syntactic or rather paratactic preferences, it is a commonly known that the biblical verb system usually comprises a stringing together of parallel structures, where the waw consecutive, as the connective element between the clauses, indicates whether an action is complete or incomplete, perfect or imperfect. Samuel loves the waw and elevates the art of parataxis in his poetry to conjunctions of all parts of speech, without a regular consecutio temporum, but with a clear tense system of past, present, and future. Samuel’s dealings with subordinate conjunctions can lead to artful contrasts and a new order of synonymity. For example, two lines from a zulat (Lekh Lekha) regarding Esau and Jacob read: ‫ וְ ֵק ַירבְ ִתי חָ לָק‬/ ‫ֵאתי לְ בַ הֲ ל ֹו בְ יוֹם חָ רוֹן‬ ִ ‫ִה ְרחַ ְק ִתי ָש ִעיר וְ ָשנ‬ ‫( וְ ִחיבַ בְ ִתיו בְ ָת ְמכ ֹו בְ כִ ְשרוֹן‬hirchaqti Sa‘ir we-saneti le-vahalo be-yom charon, we-qiravti Chalaq we- chibbavtiw be-tomkho be-khishron)—‘I pushed aside Esau whom I hated, to strike him on the day of anger, but I drew Jacob near whom I loved, in supporting him with virtue’. Such word-byword parallel lines prove that constructive infinitives come to the aid of subordination, which is explicitly the case in the third subsequent line from the same strophe in this zulat: ‫ּבְ ִה ְש ַת ְעבֵ ד בָ נָיו‬ ‫( בְ צוֹעַ ן ּבְ נַאֲ ָקם ּבְ ָק ְרָם בְ גָרוֹן‬u-ve-hishta‘bed banaw be-Tzo‘an u-ve-na’aqam u-ve-qor’am be- garon). This has three constructive infinitives in a row—‘In the enslavement of his sons (the people of Israel), and in their groaning (alluding to the biblical noun na’aqatam), and in crying aloud’. The strophe concludes with a reference to Josh. 24:5: ‫( וָ אֶ ְשלַח אֶ ת מֹ ֶשה וְ אֶ ת ַהֲ רֹן‬Wa-eshlach et Mosheh we-et Aharon), and is definitely consecutive: ‘That is why I have sent Moses and Aaron’. In another instance (Wayyera), the waw game can serve both ways: ‫ָב בְ נֵס ְש ִמינִ י כְ נּסָ ה‬ ‫( וְ ָשמַ ע לִ ְמחוֹלְ ל ֹו וַ י ְַק ֵשב‬Av be-nes shemini ke-nussah we-shama‘ li-mecholelo wayyaqshev)—‘When Abraham was put to the test for the eighth time (for circumcision), he hearkened his God and listened’. The verbal form wayyaqshev appears just once in the context of Mal. 3:16: wayyaqshev Hashem wayyishma‘, so that in this verse line a double entendre cannot be entirely excluded—is it Abraham who listened or God who paid attention? These and similar phrases are drawn from familiar canonical sources and to the listener or reader it could have been immediately apparent that such passages are lyrical assemblages of composed units. A line from the same yotser for Wayyera, ‫ּמ ַרחֶ ֶקת ְקרוֹבִ ים‬ ְ ‫גְד ֹולָה ִהיא לּגְמָ ה ֶש ְמ ָק ֶרבֶ ת ְרחו ִֹקים‬ (gedolah hi logmah she-meqarevet rechoqim u-meracheqet qerovim)—‘Of great importance is the mouthful which draws near those who are distant and alienates those who are near’—would have been recognised by attendants because of an almost literal rendering of the words from BT Sanhedrin 103b. This type of verse line seems almost a kind of versified prose, repeated in the same poem in a verse like ְ‫( ִמ ַיד ִמים בְ הַ ְרבֵ ה ִד ְמיוֹנוֹת פְ עָ ִמים אֲ נ ִָשים פְ עָ ִמים מַ לְ ָכִ ים ְדמּ ָתם ָתועֳ ַר‬middamim be-harbeh dimyonot pe‘amim anashim pe‘amim mal’akhim demutam to‘orakh)—‘In many appearances they resemble sometimes people sometimes angels, this is how their appearance is likened/set’. The literal wording pe‘amim anashim pe‘amim mal’akhim comes from Genesis Rabbah 21:9, but the tradition is told in full length in Tanhuma B Wayyera 20: Abraham called them ‘men’ because that is how they appeared to him. However, in accordance with Gen. 19:1, Lot considered them to be angels: ‘The two angels arrived at Sodom in the evening’. Nevertheless, the paytanic element is realised by three repetitive forms from the root d-m-h and by the use of the verb ‘arakh in Hof‘al. When Samuel turns to halakhic sources, then, at times, the prosaic/narrative element is even stronger. For instance, in his yotser for Kiy Tissa, one encounters two lines of extreme length: ‫או ָֹתם ִשימַ ע ְשקוֹל עַ ל יְדֵ י גִזְ בָ ִרים ָשלוֹש ּמַ ְרכוֹלִ ין ֶשבַ ע וְ כ ְַתלִ ִיקים ְש ַניִם‬ ‫ שּלְ חָ נִ ים בְ ִשבְ ָתם גוֹבִ ין מֵ הֶ ם ֶשֹא בְ טוֹבָ ָתם וְ ֹא יְמַ ְשכְ נּ ְמכַפְ ֵרי אַ ְשמָ ָתם‬/ ‫ָיתם‬ ָ ‫( לִ פְ ִדי‬otam shima’ sheqol ‘al yedey gizbarim shalosh u-markolin sheva’ we-khatliqim shenayim lifdiyatam, shulchanim beshivtam govin mehem she-lo be-tovatam we-lo yemashkenu mekhaprey ashmatam). This translates as: ‘To those Moses told to pay the sheqel by two treasurers, three administrators and seven financers for the sake of their redemption; when tables are set up they collect [the sheqel] from them not for their benefit, and they do not exact pledges from those who atone for their guilt [the kohanim are meant here]’. Such lines are derived directly from the Jerusalem Talmud, tractate Sheqalim 5,2,49a and Mishnah Sheqalim 1,3—pure prose were it not for the deliberately designed poetic framework within which these halakhot are incorporated. There are many more long verse lines, up to ten words per line, demonstrating that Samuel felt free to insert them with only small adaptations to acrostics and rhyme, so mostly the initial and the concluding words are poetic. In his 2003 study, Katsumata rightly observed that a paytan like Samuel had not yet been subdued by the rules of metrics because the obligations of meter would have prevented him from such imbalances in line length. In the me’orot of the same yotser for Kiy Tissa, Samuel permits himself to criticise the duty to pay taxes to authorities who loot or steal (‫– מֶ ְמ ֶשלֶת נו ֶֹשלֶת‬ memshelet noshelet) from the Jews. They, the Jews, would have preferred to donate the money to the Temple of Jerusalem: ‫ וְ עַ ד מָ ה לָמַ ס‬/ ‫ מֶ ְמ ֶשלֶת נו ֶֹשלֶת אֲ ֶשר לִ י ָנג ָָשה וְ ָנָסָ ה‬/ ‫יתיָ ָרם וְ ִנ ָשא‬ ִ ִּ‫יתיָ ִק‬ ִ ִּ‫ִשיחַ ְר ִתיָ ִא‬ ‫ לִ י אוֹר פָ נֶיָ נְסָ ה‬/ ‫ אֶ ת ִרפְ י ֹונִ י ַשנֵס ְת ַשנֵסָ ה‬/ ‫( כ ְַספִ י גוֹבָ ה לִ ְקנֹ סָ ה‬shichartikha iwwitikha qiwwitikha Ram we- Nissa, memshelet noshelet asher li nagashah we-anasah, we-‘ad mah la-mas kaspi govah liqenosah, et rifyoni shanes teshannesah, li or paneykha nesah). This translates as: ‘I beseech you, I desire you, I long for you, Oh high and exalted, a looting kingdom oppresses and forces me, until when will it collect my money for taxes as a penalty, surely you will make me stronger in my weakness, lift up the light of your face upon me’. Similarly, Samuel deplores the miserable situation of Israel in a we-‘ad matay (parashat Balaq), which almost turns into a kind of qinah: ‫יתי ְנשֹא סֵ בֶ ל‬ ִ ֵ‫( וְ נִ לְ א‬wenil’eyti neso sevel)– ‘Israel is tired of its sufferings’, ‫ בְ אֵ ין מַ ִתיר כֶבֶ ל‬/ ‫כָלּ חַ יַי בְ ֵתבֵ ל‬ (kalu chayay be-tevel, be-eyn mattir kevel)– ‘And life is over when nobody comes to liberate’, ‫ּמדוֹב וְ נָמֵ ר הַ מַ ס ְתחַ בֵ ל‬ ִ / ‫ּמבָ בֶ ל‬ ִ ‫( הָ ֵשב ִמּּד‬hashev mi-Lud u-mi-Bavel, u-mi-dov we-namer ha-mas techabbel)– ‘God should bring back Israel from Egypt and Iraq and annul the payment of taxes from bear and leopard, the two Danielic beasts who represent the two kingdoms’. It concludes with a wish: ‫יתנִ י בְ ָרכָה בְ ֶק ֶרב ֶתבֶ ל‬ ֵ ‫ וְ ִש‬/ ‫יחי ַקבֵ ל‬ ִ ‫יעית וְ ִש‬ ִ ִ‫יעי מֵ ְרב‬ ִ ‫( הו ִֹש‬hoshi‘i me-revi‘it we-sichi qabbel, weshiteeni verakhah ve-qerev tèvèl)– ‘Save me from the fourth beast and accept my prayer, put me as a blessed spice’. In their commentary, the editors ask the question if the reference to the fourth beast should be linked with the Byzantines who, during Samuel’s lifetime, occasionally threatened Palestine, but, as a historical reference, any such explanation would be merely a guess. Allusions play a major role in Samuel’s oeuvre, but they are sparingly used for biographical and political circumstances, and, apparently, more thematically focused. Allusions are an ingredient of Samuel’s style, but his creativity is more directed towards pervasive features of language, most clearly seen in the cultivation of a high degree of synonymity and overlapping terms, and, often, these are nicely arranged in pairs and even triplets. This characteristic of Samuel’s compositional style is not exclusively lyrical, but also serves didactic and mnemotechnical purposes—that, eventually, people may better understand the intentions of the composer. This is the ultimate way of combining the intended message with the beauty of the Hebrew language because these synonyms and overlaps add to the tastefulness of the verses. There are numerous examples, but let me confine myself to Samuel’s festive compositions for holidays and outstanding Sabbaths, like the Sabbath of Sheqalim: ‫ ִמי‬/ ‫ בְ ָק ְשב ֹו צָ ג רו ֵֹתעַ וְ רו ֵֹתת‬/ ‫ִאיש כוֹפֶ ר נַפְ ש ֹו ל ֵָתת‬ ‫יתן פִ ְדיוֹן לְ צו ֵֹתת‬ ֵ ִ‫( יּכַל ל‬ish kofer nafsho latet, be-qoshvo tzag rotea’ we-rotet, miy yukhal litten pidyon le-tzotet)—‘Each one must give a ransom for his life, when Moses heard this, he stood there flinching and shaking, who can obey and give redemption?’ Although the participles rotea’ and rotet have one letter of difference between them, practically have the same connotation. Another striking grammatical feature is the juxtaposition of both the classical and later infinitive forms of n-t-n. Some combinations are derived from or based on Scripture and liturgy: ‫יריב ריבך‬ (yariv rivkha), ‫( הקרבת קרבני‬haqravat qorbanay), ‫( מספר סופר‬mispar sofer), ‫( נין ונכד‬nin wenekhed), ‫( יחיד ומיוחד‬yachid u-meyuchad). However, the majority is Samuel’s own invention: ‫וְ לִ בָ ם‬ ְ‫ּמ ְתמָ ֵר‬ ִ ‫( ִמ ְתמַ ְסמֵ ס‬we-libbam mitmasmes u-mitmarekh – Zakhor)—‘Their heart is melting and softening/fearing’; ‫נִס ָתר‬ ְ ְ‫( נִ כְ מַ ס נ ְֶעלַם ו‬nikhmas ne‘elam we-nistar)– ‘Hidden, concealed and covered’ (Miqqetz); concerning Amaleq, this is stated: ‫ זִ כְ ר ֹו לְ סַ ֵּק‬... ‫( אוֹבֵ ד לְ הַ ְש ִמיד‬oved le-hashmid … zikhro le-salleq), three synonymous expressions for his destruction. And, equally in his yotser compositionn for Pesach (zulat), Samuel makes a triple request with regard to the sons of Esau: ‫( ג ַַדע ַגַּע בַ ַּע ְמ ֵתי סוֹד ָר ִעים‬gadda’ galla’ balla’ metey sod ra‘im)—‘Cut down, fight, destroy the evil associates’. Overlap of words/terms belongs to Samuel’s idiomatic pattern and is achieved by means of his abundant employment of absolute infinitives, without any strict grammatical necessity but obviously for the sake of a lyrical and alliterative effect, both affirmative: ‫סָ חוֹב‬ ּ‫( י ְִסחָ בּה‬sachov yischavuhu)—‘They will drag him [Goliath] along’ (Zakhor)—and negative: chafotz lo tachpotz, qom lo qamnu, shamoa’ bal tishme‘u. The scriptural occurrence of zakhor tizkor and the overall connotation of the absolute infinitive zakhor in the context of the Sabbath commandment inspired Samuel to extend its use: ‫ זָכוֹר ָזכ ְַר ִתי וְ לִ בִ י בְ ִק ְרבִ י י ִָחיל‬/ ‫זְ כָר זֹאת א ֹויֵב או ִֹתי ִהזְ ִחיל‬ (zekhor zot oyev oti hizchil, zakhor zakharti we-libbi be-qirbi yachil)—‘By remembering this the enemy has frightened me; I do remember, my heart falters inside me’ (ofan Devarim). In the guf ha-yotser (Eqev), one can find similar absolute infinitives of enforcement and emphasis: ‫חוֹלִ י סוֹב‬ ְִ‫( יָסוֹב עַ ל ְמעַ ַני‬choli sov yasov al me‘aneykha)—‘Disease will he bring upon your oppressors’; ‫צָ הוֹל‬ ‫ימים‬ ִ ‫( י ְִצהֲ לּ נְ חּלֵי נְ ִע‬tzahol yitzhalu nechuley ne‘imim)—‘The heirs of pleasances will rejoice’; ּ‫ וַ אֲ ֶשר לְ ָש ֶר ְתָ ָקרוֹב י ְִק ָרב‬/ ּ‫( וְ הַ ג ֹויִם חָ רוֹב יֶחֱ ָרב‬we-ha-goyim charov yecheravu wa-asher le-sharetkha qarov yiqravu)—‘The nations will be utterly ruined, and those will draw near who wish to serve you’; ְִ‫ְאּמלָלּ לִ פְ נֵי ְמ ַתי‬ ְ ‫אּמלַל י‬ ְ ‫( הַ ג ֹויִם‬ha-goyim umlal ye’umlalu lifney metayikh)—‘The nations will waste away before your few people’. If this paytanic employment of a scriptural mode is to be defined as a matter of over-biblicising, as stated before, then we are reminded of a similar effect in the modern period, called melitsah, a general term for rhetoric or poetry, even eloquence. However, in the context of Haskalah literature it is sometimes seen as a negative effect caused by inserting all sorts of allusions to biblical and rabbinic canons. The maskilic situation is to some extent identical to the situation of a tenth- or eleventh-century paytan: by means of allusiveness, both the maskilic writer and the medieval hymnist intend to give their text or verse a grandeur that is both epic and lyric. However, where the maskilic author subjects his modern novel to an awkward set of scriptural citations and allusions, Samuel tries to harmonise the convention of allusiveness with his personal poetic message and chooses an elaborate intertextuality, which at best is shown in pairs of alliterative words from an identical or cognate stem. Beyond these considerations of stylistic and even morphological purport, Samuel’s individual artistry, or strategy, if you like, assumes that there are distinctively Hebrew ways to express things. An obvious conclusion is that, quite vividly, his concept of Hebrew involves innovative elements of properness and exercise that can be understood as a personal attempt to bridge the gap between canonical texts and contemporary poetic practice. The question of normativity in the world of medieval Jewish hymnography is an exciting one because our scholarly quest for norms and criteria can easily be tied to certain generic demands. Samuel the Third mainly composed yotserot, so that first and foremost we tend to investigate the genre of the yotser, in accordance with Ezra Fleischer’s influential The Yoẓer: its emergence and development (HaYotserot be-Hithawwutam we-Hitpatchutam – 1984). However, should Samuel’s verbal register and his literate playfulness be set in a much broader perspective than the single genre of Piyyut, the yotser, would possibly permit this. His oeuvre qualifies him as a gifted composer whose lyrical achievements need to be studied at the crossroad of medieval Hebrew poetics and medieval Hebrew linguistics, a task which other speakers have or will take up today. The Yahalom and Katsumata edition offers all the necessary means to gain new insights. Let me finish by quoting Sahlan ben Abraham who wrote an elegy mourning the death of Samuel the Third, attributing to him the epithet ‘an expert in rhymes’: ‫( בַ חֲ רּזִ ים בָ ִקי‬baqi va-charuzim). After one thousand years, this elegant qualification has been restored to its owner.