With head bowed down, they stand with streaming eyes.
Before the ruined wall, whose grimy stones
Are crumbling with the weight of centuries,
And read their Mincha-prayer in mournful tones.

Their garb proclaims them men of many lands:
Those dwell amid the northern snows, and these
Have wandered far from Yemen's burning sands,
Or sought their way across the western seas.

Not here alone do wailing figures stand!
Not here alone do tears of sorrow flow!
In every clime they beat, with clenched hand
Against the stones of Israel's wall of woe.

In every land there rises, stern and great,
This self-same wail of torment and of fears,
Its courses laid with stones of scorn, and hate,
And bonded with cement of blood and tears.