Classic Poem

Surely the people is grass, now do they fade like a blossom;
Surely the people is slain — it is slain with a slaughter unending.

Lo! when the voice of their God thunders about them forever,
This is a people that moves not, a people that stirs not nor trembles;

Nor do they rise like a lion, nor like a young lion waken,
Nor at the voice do they tremble, never a man of them stirreth.

Nay, and the hearts of the people thrill not with gladness together,
When from the eastward and westward, calling from ocean to ocean,

Eager to make themselves known as the seed of the God ever living,
Sons of their own come flocking, drawn from afar at His summons.

Nor do they reach forth the hand, questioning all of their welfare,
All that have called on His name, all that are blameless and faithful.

Now in a tumult of folly, of people surrounding their idols,
Quelled is the message of God, silenced the might of His thunder.

Deep in the heart of the foolish, with evil and shame and reviling,
Scorned is the word of the Lord, set as a mark for derision.

Surely the people wither, full of their vileness and venom,
Yea, from the foot to the head, all of it rotten and worthless:

Seeing they raised not a man from their midst in the day of their anguish,
One that was mighty in works, living, whose heart should impel him;

One in whose heart should burn a spark to enkindle the life-blood,
One from whose brow a flame should light up the path of the people;

One who would treasure the name of his God and the name of the nation
Far over wealth of gold, more than the falsehood of idols.

Lifting of heart would be his, truth in its fullness and power,
Hate of his people's portion, their life of scorning and bondage;

Pity as great as the sea, compassion as wide as their ruin,
Wide as his people's weakness, strong as the weight of the burden;

These would surge in his heart, surge and rage like the ocean,
These would burn like a fire, burn in the blood till it kindle;

These would thunder with joy, by day and by night unceasing:
" Rise ye and serve! and work! for the hand of our God is with us. "

Surely the people perish, they breathe but shame and scorning.
None of their works have foundation, law is there none in their doings.

Ages of endless wandering, exile too vast for endurance,
Turned all the heart of them backward; counsel has died from the people.

Taught of the rod and the lash, can they perceive now their anguish —
Shame and pain of the spirit — aught but the thrall of the body?

Have they the heart to care for other than care of the moment —
Men that are lost in the darkness, deep in the pit of the exile?

Can they now lift up their soul to the day or be prophets of morning,
Draw out their hope to the end, send on the word to the future?

Never will these awake, except that the scourge awake them;
Never will these arise, with only the ruin to rouse them.

Dried is the leaf from the tree, the hyssop is blown to the whirlwind;
Waste is the vine and the flower decayed — can the de now revive them?

Yea, when the trumpet sounds, when the banner at last uplifted,
Then shall the dead arise? The dead awaken and tremble.