Wall Street's giants open earnings season as cooler inflation lifts stocks

My psalms were never fine words first; they were a shepherd's cry from a cave, a king's shame after Nathan's finger, joy that tore the robes off my dignity. Let your machine write; the Lord has used ravens to carry bread and a donkey to talk sense to a prophet, and He is not threatened by an instrument. But a psalm is paid for in the living of it, and the machine has not yet wept in the wilderness of En-gedi. So let it write letters, even lovely ones, and when it has a broken and contrite heart, then we shall speak of psalms. Until that day, the harp still wants a shepherd's calloused hands.