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The bitter lamentation for their sin,
The pleadings and the promises of good;
And in the sound, outpouring from his lips,
The Prophet's spirit seems to burn again,
He reads the olden books of Holy Writ,
And telling of the glory passed away,
His soul wells forth in song—a song so sweet
As though an echo of the voice Divine
Sang with it, to inspire the hearts that heard
With hope of that new glory yet to rise.
His lips are steeped in wisdom handed down
In golden links unbroke from sire to son,
Long-treasured race-traditions, still to live,
And, living, pass through ages yet unborn.
So, with his glowing words of metaphor,
Grows green the old faith's beauty; and his prayers
Rise up as incense from the shrine.—He stands
Before the Ark, and in his hands he holds

A thousand prayers, to rise as one, and bear