In prophet word and martyr faith,
Visions of saint and seer,
The poet's song, the hero's death-
That undertone we hear.
A sense we have of things unseen,
Transcending thing of time;
We catch earth's broken chords between
The everlasting chime.
And light breaks through the rifted haze
In shining vistas broad;
We stand amid the eternal ways,
Held by the hand of God.
'M but a child, and childish toys
Make up the sum of all my joys-
But hark! while I am playing here
A strange sound falls upon my ear,
A note of music weird and wild,
And lo, I am a changeling child—
Where I stand with my childish feet,
The centuries around me meet;
Though fresh the laughter in mine eyes,
And on my lips, yet full of sighs
The air about me, and I seem
To live and move as in a dream.
With that strange music rise and swell
Old memories of what befel
The Shofar brings me face to face
With all the martyrdoms of old
That are in song and story told;
And as its tones ring shrill and loud,
They make me feel both sad and proud
That I am heir to all this woe,
That all this glory I should know.
And though I see strange children play
With all the baubles of the day,
I know I have more precious things;
My gifts are from the King of kings,
Whose angels He before me sent,
And to them of His glory lent.
The Shofar, hark! it tells my soul
That as the ages onward roll,
I more and more shall feel and hear
The Spirit's speech around and near.
My feet shall forward, upward press,
Until a perfect wilderness
Of flowers springs where'er I tread,
And blessings rain down on my head.
So may the Shofar peal on peal,
The heart unto itself reveal;
'Till thou again, O Israel,
In "Jacob's goodly tents" shall dwell.
IN lonely hours of thought I long
To hear again that sacred song,
So solemn, beautiful and soft,
Which years ago I heard so oft!
No song of war or jilted love,
Nor of the moon and stars above;
A wandering tribe without a goal
Asks pardon from its very soul.
Kol Nidré, masterpiece of art,
Thou outcry of a weary heart,
Sublime, seraphic, seems to me
The sweetness of thy melody.
No other song is half so rich,
And none may ever so bewitch
Like thee-For magic is thy spell
O hymn of Israel.
LO! above the mournful chanting,
Rise the fuller-sounded wailings
Of the soul's most solemn anthem.
Hark! the strains of deep Kol Nidré—
Saddest music ever mortal
Taught his lips to hymn or sound!
Not the heart of one lone mortal
Told his anguish in that strain;
All the sorrow, pain, and struggles
Of a people in despair,
Gathered from the vale of weeping,
Through the ages of distress.
'Tis a mighty cry of beings
Held in bondage and affliction;
All the wailing and lamenting
Of a homeless people, roaming
O'er the plains and scattered hamlets
Of a world without a refuge,
All the sorrows, trials, bereavements,—
Loss of country, home, and people,
In one mighty strain uniting,
Chant for every age its wail;
Make the suffering years re-echo
With the wounds and pains of yore;
Give a voice to every martyr
Ever hushed to death by pain,
Every smothered shriek of laughter
Burned upon the fagot's bier;
Bring the wander-years and exile,
Persecution's harsh assailment,
Ghetto misery and hounding,
To the ears of men to-day;
Link the dark and dreary ages
With the brighter future's glow;
Weave the past and hopeful present;
Bind the living with the sleeping,
Dust unto the dust confessing,
Even with the dead uniting,
When the soul would join with God.
Slowly creep the muffled murmurs.
As the leaves and flowers conspiring,
Steal a breeze from summer's chamber,
Hum and mumble as they stroke it,
Smooth, caress, and gently coy it,
So this murmur spreads the voices
Of the praying synagogue,
As each lip repeats the sinning
Of his selfish, godless living,
By each mutter low recounting
Every single sin and crime-
How he falsified his neighbor,
Made a stumbling-block for blindness,
Cursed the deaf, unstaid the cripple,
Played his son and daughter wrong,
Tattled of his wife's behavior,
Made his father's age a load,
Spoke belittling of his mother,
Took advantage of the stupid,
Made the hungry buy their bread,
Turned the needy from his threshold,
Clothed the naked with his bareness,
Shut the stranger from his fold,
Never begged forgiveness, pardon,
For a wrong aimed at a foe,
Never weighed the love or mercy
Of the Father of the world.
Low the lips are now repenting;
Every mutter is a sob
Ebbing from the font of being; Conscience speaks in lowest accents, Lest the voice cry out to men.
Who has ever heard Kol Nidré
Gushing from the breast of man,
Rising, falling, as the ocean
Lifts the waves in joy or fear.
From Time's ocean has it risen;
Every age has lent a murmur,
Every cycle built a wall;
Every sorrow ever dwelling
In the tortured heart of man,
Tears and sighs together swelling,
Answer for the pangs of ages.
'Tis the voice of countless pilgrims,
Sons of Jacob, with a cry,
Moaning, sighing, grieving, wailing,
Answering in thousand voices
Fate and destiny of man,
Winning soul a consolation.
For their sad allotment's creed ;
Wander-song of homeless traveller,
Outcast from the ranks of men;
Echoes from the throes of mortals,
Questioning the ways of God;
Song hummed by the lonely desert,
Prompted by the heart of night,
Lisped across the sandy borders
By the desert's trailing wind;
Hymn of midnight and the silence,
Song the friendless stars intone,
Sung whene'er the tempest hurtles,
Bruits destruction to the world;
Song of every song of sorrow,
Wail for every grief and woe,
World affliction, world lamenting;
Sorrow of the lonely desert;
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