Was but God's child like all of us.
The atheist, agnostic, Jew and Turk
And Christian. And his equal, all who shirk
No sacrifice for fellowmen. Some may
Not hold like creed with you. For one will say One doubts Christ is King. Does that matter? Fling Cast aside your fears,
One calls God, allah.
Afar your doctrine.
Seek out the weeping ones and dry their tears.
The sick, the halt, the sinner and the blind,
Oh, pity them and love them and be kind.
For, after all, the helpful human deed
By Christian, Turk or Jew to one in need
Can bring more souls to God than all man's creed."
The Yellow Badge
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
RUTH SCHECHTER ALEXANDER.
A Tribute to the Jews
SINCE Terah's son from Chaldea went,
On Manfred's plains to spread his tent,
The Jewish race in every age
Illumines the historic page.
In ages dim, long past and gone,
The Hebrew warrior victories won,
Ere Priam's son in battle stood,
Or Roman soldier shed his blood.
The ancient Seer, in dreamy trance,
The past had seen in mystic glance,
And in the flaming bush had heard
The voice of God-Almighty's word.
On Sinai's mount, 'mid thunders loud,
From cavern dark, and curtaining cloud
Mysterious voices to him came
In which he heard Jehovah's name;
And in the clefted rock he saw
The Spirit of Eternal Law.
The history of this people old,
By poet writ and prophet told,
Gives pictures grand of highest thought,
From realms of inspiration caught;
Whether writ with pen of living fire,
Or told in words of burning ire;
Whether an Isaiah sternly warns,
Or Jeremiah weeping mourns;
Whether Daniel warning gives to kings
Or the lone captive sadly sings
Beneath the willow trees upon
The streams that flow by Babylon;
Whether David sings a hymn of praise,
Or Job laments his darkened days;
They all, in lofty numbers tell
Of thoughts sublime, that only dwell
In minds inspired by living beams
That wake to life the poet's dreams.
Dark was the day, and sad the hour,
When Judea passed to Roman power!
Her old men sighed, her maidens wept,
When havoc o'er Jerusalem swept;
And smouldering ruins, stained with blood,
Told where her sacred Temple stood.
And darker still, in after time,
When scattered far, in every clime,
Against her wandering children rose
The persecuting hand of foes,
Inspired by blind, malignant hate,
Which centuries long did not abate,
Which still in this enlightened day,
Has not entirely passed away;
And, yet for all, though scattered wide
On every shore where rolls the tide,
Her children e'er preserved the name
That told from whence their fathers came;
And worshipped still the Great Unknown,
As to the ancient Patriarch shown.
The gloomy ages testify
To what they did in times gone by,
In learned science, and the part
They acted in the realms of art,
While wandering o'er the face of earth,
Far from the land that gave them birth.
The student of historic lore,
As slow he turns the pages o'er,
Upon its musty leaves will see
Semitic names of high degree;
In many a dim and blotted line,
The Maccabæan warriors shine,
And bright and lustrous, too, he sees
The name of famed Maimonides.
And modern times bear witness, too,
To what the sons of Israel do-
Disraeli fills a shining place
In the history of the Saxon race;
And Benjamin high honors won
In the Senate Halls of Washington;
Montefiore long will stand
An honored name in every land;
The Baron Hirsch long, long will be
Remembered by humanity;
While now, to-day, the Bernhardt's name Is clothed in histrionic fame!
While, though the Jews no country claim,
And, as a nation, have no name,
They still retain, where'er they be,
Their ancient skill and energy;
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