הָלַם

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.

…and smashing all the carvings with hatchets and picks.

Let the righteous man strike me; let his rebuke be an act of loving devotion. It is oil for my head; let me not refuse it. For my prayer is ever against the deeds of the wicked.

“They struck me, but I feel no pain! They beat me, but I did not know it! When can I wake up to search for another drink?”

For the fields of Heshbon have withered, along with the grapevines of Sibmah. The rulers of the nations have trampled its choicest vines, which had reached as far as Jazer and spread toward the desert. Their shoots had spread out and 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 hammer cheers him who strikes the anvil, saying of the welding, “It is good.” He nails it down so it will not be toppled.