See, O, King, the suppliant one,
Pale and trembling at the throne!
See the golden crown she bears,
And the silken robe she wears;
Whiter, brighter than their sheen,
Is the woman's soul within!

Mercy's golden wand extend,
While her gentle head shall bend
Meekly o'er Thy scepter now,
Pardon, favor, bounty show;
Naught in all Thy broad domain,
Like the woman's soul within!

Must we perish, O my nation,
With the light of ages crowned?
Surely there is yet salvation
With our great Deliverer found;
Cry aloud, then, Sion's Daughter,
Rend with sorrowing groans the sky;
Blunt with prayer the sword of slaughter, —
Haste, my people, ere we die!

Thou, who shone our Nation's glory,
Mark this time of deep distress!
Hear, with pitying ear, our story,
See our anguish, Lord, and bless!
But if thus our sins to chasten
Thou refuse Thy children's cry,
All submissive, I will hasten
With my people, Lord, to die.

Nobly she stands, a Queen; the glittering band,
Mark of a royal state, beneath her hand;
She points the silken robe with peerless grace,
Pure as her soul and pallid as her face;
Then reaches to the Scepter, whence is drawn
The kingly pardon she has bravely won.