Succoth

WHAT offerings can we bring Thee, Lord?

Thy ruined Temple stands forlorn;

Its stones are level with the sward

Or alien altars now adorn.

And bitter desolation stills

The lowings of the stately herds,

The bleatings on a hundred hills,

The shepherds’ songs of joyous words.

No fields of corn or luscious vines

Thy people’s toiling hands engage,

And from the Ghetto’s dark confines

They make no holy pilgrimage

To bring their offerings to Thy shrine

With sound of tabret and of lute;

They pour a draught of bitter wine

And lay before Thee Dead Sea fruit!

Oh, give us back our fathers’ days,

The land they trod in festive glee,

When harvestings were acts of praise

And best ripe fruits were gifts to Thee!