He Watcheth Over Israel

THOUGH our harps hang on the willows,

Near to Babylon’s turgid stream;

Though our ancient glory mock us,

Like a half-remembered dream;

Still His word runs with the ages—

Still His Covenant He keeps—

Yea, He watcheth over Israel

And He slumbers not, nor sleeps.

Though we dwell in alien countries,

Bound by, yet without, their law;

Though they spoil us, in their despite

Of the source from whence we draw

That which ever cleaves us from them;

He will heed when Jacob weeps—

Yea, he watcheth over Israel

And He slumbers not, nor sleeps.

Though our sword arm be sore stricken,

Although mute be David’s lyre;

Though our lips be locked and silent—

Lips once touched by living fire—

Still, the Temple Lamps are burning

In His own mysterious deeps—

Yea, he watcheth over Israel

And He slumbers not, nor sleeps.

Yea, His word is constant, constant,

As the singing of the sea;

And the High Priest of the nations

Yet shall stand unshackled, free!

And the First-born of the Promise

Sow no more where despite reaps—

Yea, He watcheth over Israel

And He slumbers not, nor sleeps.