All hope is fled, but through the night,
Forth from the temple's inmost height,
Streams up to heaven God's holy light.
Six weary months of toil and care,
One week of famine and despair,
And yet the wondrous sheen is there.
Before the dawn the warriors fly,
Ah! God of hosts, no help is nigh,
But still the flame leaps up on high.
With stealthy tread and muffled face,
Forth flit the last of David's race,
But God is in his holy place.
The wisest elders, sad and slow,
Depart as suppliants to the foe,
But still the heavenly flashes glow.
Then Judah's maidens pace along,
Her mothers lead the weeping throng,
And yet the blaze is bright and strong.
Now, gathering in the lonesome street,
The bands of famished children meet, —
List to the pattering of their feet.
The glory rises as a cloud,
And settling on the infant crowd
Enwraps them in a glistering shroud.
