Caught from that blaze by wrath Divine,
Lost branches of the once-loved vine,
   Now withered, spent, and sere,
See Israel’s sons, like glowing brands,
Tossed wildly o’er a thousand lands
   For twice a thousand year.

God will not quench nor slay them quite,
But lifts them like a beacon-light
   The apostate Church to scare;
Or like pale ghosts that darkling roam,
Hovering around their ancient home,
   But find no refuge there.

Ye blessed Angels! if of you
There be, who love the ways to view
   Of Kings and Kingdoms here;
(And sure, ’tis worth an Angel’s gaze,
To see, throughout that dreary maze,
   God teaching love and fear:)

Oh say, in all the bleak expanse
Is there a spot to win your glance,
   So bright, so dark as this? 
A hopeless faith, a homeless race,
Yet seeking the most holy place,
   And owning the true bliss!

Salted with fire they seem, to show
How spirits lost in endless woe
   May undecaying live. 
Oh, sickening thought! yet hold it fast
Long as this glittering world shall last,
   Or sin at heart survive.

And hark! amid the flashing fire,
Mingling with tones of fear and ire,
   Soft Mercy’s undersong —
’Tis Abraham’s God who speaks so loud,
His people’s cries have pierced the cloud,
   He sees, He sees their wrong;

He is come down to break their chain;
Though nevermore on Sion’s fane
   His visible ensign wave;
’Tis Sion, wheresoe’er they dwell,
Who, with His own true Israel,
   Shall own Him strong to save.

He shall redeem them one by one,
Where’er the world-encircling sun
   Shall see them meekly kneel: 
All that He asks on Israel’s part,
Is only that the captive heart
   Its woe and burthen feel.

Gentiles! with fixed yet awful eye
Turn ye this page of mystery,
   Nor slight the warning sound: 
“Put off thy shoes from off thy feet —
The place where man his God shall meet,
   Be sure, is holy ground.”

PALM SUNDAY

And He answered and said unto them, I tell you that, if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out.  St. Luke xix. 40.

Ye whose hearts are beating high
With the pulse of Poesy,
Heirs of more than royal race,
Framed by Heaven’s peculiar grace,
God’s own work to do on earth,
   (If the word be not too bold,)
Giving virtue a new birth,
   And a life that ne’er grows old —

Sovereign masters of all hearts! 
Know ye, who hath set your parts? 
He who gave you breath to sing,
By whose strength ye sweep the string,
He hath chosen you, to lead
   His Hosannas here below; —
Mount, and claim your glorious meed;
   Linger not with sin and woe.

But if ye should hold your peace,
Deem not that the song would cease —
Angels round His glory-throne,
Stars, His guiding hand that own,
Flowers, that grow beneath our feet,
   Stones in earth’s dark womb that rest,
High and low in choir shall meet,
   Ere His Name shall be unblest.