38
SONGS OF EXILE
To weep thy woe my cry is waxen strong:—
But dreaming of thine own restored anew
I am a harp to sound for thee thy song.
My heart to Bethel sorely yearneth yet,
Peniel and Mahanaim; yea, where'er
In holy concourse all thy pure ones met.
There the Shechinah dwelt in thee; and He,
God thy Creator, lo, He opened there
Toward the gates of Heaven the gates of thee.
And only glory from the Lord was thine
For light; and moon and stars and sunshine waned,
Nor gave more light unto thy light divine.
O I would choose but for my soul to pour
Itself where then the Spirit of God remained,
Outpoured upon thy chosen ones of yore.
