Ah! deem not the Holy One cruel;
Had Solyma loved His will,
She had sparkled the costliest jewel,
The beauty of nations, still;
The Lord had been still her defender,
Had gloried in Shiloh’s birth.
But she fell — and her crown of glory
Was struck from her rebel brow;
She wanders in exile now.
Yet, sad one, distrust not our pity;
Though some may wring out thy tears,
We will weep for the Holy City,
And sorrow o’er former years.
Thou art stricken, dethroned, and lowly,
Bereft of a home on earth,
Yet still to our hearts thou art holy,
He sprang from thy chosen of daughters,
His star o’er thy hills arose,
He bathed in thy soft-flowing waters,
And wept o’er thy coming woes.
He wept, who in secret yet lingers,
With yearnings of heart, o’er thee;
He, He, whom thy blood-sprinkled fingers
Once nailed to the cursed tree.
Dark deed! it was thine to afflict Him;
When thou, in the blood of thy victim,
Shalt wash thy deep stains away.
Thou land of the Cross, and the glory,
Whose brightness at last will shine
Afar through the earth — what a story
He died as a lamb: — as a lion,
He spares thee, nor can forget
His desolate Exile of Zion;
He waits to be gracious yet.