There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answer’d keen, And Zion’s daughters pour’d their lays, With priest’s and warrior’s voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone; Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And Thou hast left them to their own.

But, present still, though now unseen; When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen To temper the deceitful ray. And oh, when stoops on Judah’s path In shade and storm the frequent night, Be Thou , long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning, and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel’s streams, The tyrant’s jest, the Gentile’s scorn; No censer round our altar beams, And mute our timbrel, trump, and horn. But Thou hast said, the blood of goat, The flesh of rams, I will not prize; A contrite heart, and humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice.