| |
| HUNDREDS of years agone, my brothers, | |
| And yet not so long ago, | |
| They bound on our arms a yellow shame | |
| The seal of their scorn for us of the Name, | |
| And laughed at our deep-sunk woe. | 5 |
| |
| Hundreds of years are past my brothers, | |
| And the world sweeps on to its goal; | |
| We walk the streets with a master’s tread | |
| And the fear we lived in is long since dead, | |
| But the badge we wear in our soul. | 10 |
| |
| Aye, the centuries long of cringing, brothers, | |
| Lest worse than the fear might fall, | |
| Have broken the back of our freeman’s pride | |
| And the terror of those who were cursed, and died | |
| Lives on in us one and all. | 15 |
| |
| What could they do of old, my brothers? | |
| They killed us like sheep and then? | |
| We waited for death in an ecstasy, | |
| As the unfelt pang that should set us free, | |
| And give us our life again. | 20 |
| |
| Ah! We live easily now, my brothers, | |
| A snug, complacent crew | |
| With wealth and culture at our command | |
| And the friendly glance and the outstretched hand | |
| Of those who mocked us and slew. | 25 |
| |
| And we walk warily now, my brothers, | |
| With an eye cast round to view | |
| Lest the Past that is in us may lift its head, | |
| Betray to the world we love and dread, | |
| “Behold! This is a Jew.” | 30 |
| |
| We must love with the times, we say, my brothers, | |
| And the times are broad and free, | |
| We too belong to the Brotherhood | |
| We shout, lest it be not understood: | |
| “Liberal Jews” are we. | 35 |
| |
| Liberal minds, indeed, my brothers, | |
| Hating with petty hate | |
| Each other, our past, and the names we bear, | |
| Quarreling meanly to snatch our share | |
| Of the gold that we think makes great. | 40 |
| |
| O God, the yellow badge, my brothers, | |
| Is graven on Israel’s heart; | |
| And we render our language, our symbols, our songs, | |
| Our honor, our martyrs, aye, even our wrongs | |
| For a smile on our neighbour’s part. | 45 |
| |
| In our Father’s name arise, my brothers, | |
| Let us tear the shame from our souls, | |
| We shall rend ourselves and the wounds will bleed | |
| But the hurt and blood are our right and meed; | |
| They will heal us and make us whole. | 50 |
| |
| Let us turn our eyes to the East, my brothers, | |
| Where under the sunshine lies | |
| The land that is ours in every sod, | |
| The gift of the King, our fathers’ God, | |
| To His children and allies. | 55 |
| |
| Then will we live and work, my brothers, | |
| And cleanse away our stain, | |
| The ignoble and base forgot | |
| With the daily frettings of scheme and plot, | |
| We shall stand upright again. | 60 |
| |
| Come, ere it be too late, my brothers, | |
| And our just doom strikes us down, | |
| And naught remain but a pinch of dust, | |
| A flash of gold and a sword a-rust, | |
| Of the people God called His Crown. | 65 |
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