Na-Ha-Moo

“Comfort Ye—Comfort Ye, my people.”—Isaiah, xl. 1.

BY Babel’s streams, thy children wept,

And mute, O Israel, was thy choir,

While as thy weary exiles slept,

And on the willow hung thy lyre,

A seraph’s voice, soft as the dew,

Fell on their dreams with “Na-ha-moo.”

No song made glad that mournful voice,

No ease was for that bruised breast,

Till He who bade thee to rejoice

Sent forth on Zion His behest—

Firm as thy faith in Him was true,

Like manna fell the “Na-ha-moo.”

The stranger hath usurped the seat,

Where, throned in glory, blazed the fane.

The hallowed walls, thy sacred feet,

Still guard, O Zion, still remain,

To mark the ruin and renew

The memory of thy “Na-ha-moo.”

God’s mercy shines a lingering beam,

The pilgrim on his path to light,

From Sinai’s brow, from Jordan’s stream,

From offerings of the heart contrite—

His promises our hopes imbue,

With blessings of his “Na-ha-moo.”