The Jew to Jesus

O MAN of my own people, I alone

Among these alien ones can know thy face,

I who have felt the kinship of our race

Burn in me as I sit where they intone

Thy praises,—those who, striving to make known

A God for sacrifice, have missed the grace

Of thy sweet human meaning in its place,

Thou who art of our blood-bond and our own.

Are we not sharers of thy Passion? Yea,

In spirit-anguish closely by thy side

We have drained the bitter cup, and, tortured, felt

With thee the bruising of each heavy welt.

In every land is our Gethsemane.

A thousand times have we been crucified.