Ezekiel

They hear Thee not, O God! nor see;

Beneath Thy rod they mock at Thee;

The princes of our ancient line

Lie drunken with Assyrian wine;

The priests around Thy altar speak

The false words which their hearers seek;

And hymns which Chaldea’s wanton maids

Have sung in Dura’s idol-shades

Are with the Levites’ chant ascending,

With Zion’s holiest anthems blending!

On Israel’s bleeding bosom set,

The heathen heel is crushing yet;

The towers upon our holy hill

Echo Chaldean footsteps still.

Our wasted shrines,—who weeps for them?

Who mourneth for Jerusalem?

Who turneth from his gains away?

Whose knee with mine is bowed to pray?

Who, leaving feast and purpling cup,

Takes Zion’s lamentation up?

A sad and thoughtful youth, I went

With Israel’s early banishment;

And where the sullen Chebar crept,

The ritual of my fathers kept.

The water for the trench I drew,

The firstling of the flock I slew,

And, standing at the altar’s side,

I shared the Levites’ lingering pride,

That still, amidst her mocking foes,

The smoke of Zion’s offering rose.

In sudden whirlwind, cloud and flame,

The Spirit of the Highest came!

Before mine eyes a vision passed,

A glory terrible and vast;

With dreadful eyes of living things,

And sounding sweep of angel wings,

With circling light and sapphire throne,

And flame-like form of One thereon,

And voice of that dread Likeness sent

Down from the crystal firmament!

The burden of a prophet’s power

Fell on me in that fearful hour;

From off unutterable woes

The curtain of the future rose;

I saw far down the coming time

The fiery chastisement of crime;

With noise of mingling hosts, and jar

Of falling towers and shouts of war,

I saw the nations rise and fall,

Like fire-gleams on my tent’s white wall.

In dream and trance, I saw the slain

Of Egypt heaped like harvest grain.

I saw the walls of sea-born Tyre

Swept over by the spoiler’s fire;

And heard the low, expiring moan

Of Edom on his rocky throne;

And, woe is me! the wild lament

From Zion’s desolation sent;

And felt within my heart each blow

Which laid her holy places low.

In bonds and sorrow, day by day,

Before the pictured tile I lay;

And there, as in a mirror, saw

The coming of Assyria’s war;

Her swarthy lines of spearmen pass

Like locusts through Bethhoron’s grass;

I saw them draw their stormy hem

Of battle round Jerusalem;

And, listening, heard the Hebrew wail

Blend with the victor-trump of Baal!

Who trembled at my warning word?

Who owned the prophet of the Lord?

How mocked the rude, how scoffed the vile,

How stung the Levites’ scornful smile,

As o’er my spirit, dark and slow,

The shadow crept of Israel’s woe

As if the angel’s mournful roll

Had left its record on my soul,

And traced in lines of darkness there

The picture of its great despair!