Yet at the scent of water it will bud And bring forth branches like a plant.
‘Your mother was like a vine in your bloodline, Planted by the waters, Fruitful and full of branches Because of many waters.
Though its root may grow old in the earth, And its stump may die in the ground,
But man dies and is laid away; Indeed he breathes his last And where is he?
Its leaves were lovely, Its fruit abundant, And in it was food for all. The beasts of the field found shade under it, The birds of the heavens dwelt in its branches, And all flesh was fed from it.