Classic Poem

Oh , weep not, Jerusalem's daughters,
For Him who is toiling along,
He drinketh of agony's waters,
But the Cross is preceding the song.

But weep that the Roman invader
Shall march to your city of pride,
And when in the dust he has laid her,
Your deep-seated anguish deride.

And weep that the child of your bosom,
By parents so fondly adored,
Shall perish an innocent blossom,
A prey to the conqueror's sword.

The curse is upon thee, my nation,
The sword from its scabbard shall leap,
And Salem, in stern desolation,
Above the wide ruin shall weep.

Yet He who is toiling in weakness,
With chaplet of thorns on His brow,
Besought thee in love, and in meekness,
Beneath His dear sceptre to bow.

But the message of mercy is ended,
My blood, like a millstone shall fall,
For the wish that to God has ascended,
Ye cannot, my people, recall.

Then faithful, affectionate daughters,
Distill for your Salem the tear,
Your city—a valley of slaughter,
Your heritage—trembling and fear.