96
SONGS OF EXILE
And cry before the Lord
For thresholds waste,
For thresholds waste;
Cry for thy little ones
Slain of the sword;
Lift up thine hands to Him,
To Him implored.
Rejoice not, O mine enemy, o'er my pain,
O'er the destruction that hath come to me,
For though I fall I shall arise again;
The Lord yet helpeth me; yea, even He
Who scattered, in His burning wrath, His flock,
Shall gather me once more within His fold;
He shall deliver me from thee; my Rock
Shall free His servant to thy bondage sold.
Then unto thee shall pass the brimming bowl,
The cup whose bitterness hath filled my soul.
