Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Joseph Friedlander, comp. The Standard Book of Jewish Verse. 1917.

By Leon Hühner

The Jewish Exile

After the suppression of Bar Kochba’s revolt, the Jews were debarred by Hadrian from entering Jerusalem. They obtained the privilege, however, of assembling once a year, upon the Mount of Olives, on the anniversary of the burning of the Temple; and from that eminence the patriots took a distant look at the beloved city.

WHEREFORE weep our brethren yonder,

Gathered from afar and near;

Wherefore, father, tell me, wherefore

Are these weary pilgrims here?

Ah, my child, a day of mourning

Brings together Israel’s fold;

Many of these weary pilgrims

Once were warriors, strong and bold.

See, my child, the city yonder,

That was once thy father’s home;

Now dishonored and forsaken,

’Tis the seat of hated Rome.

For we rose in strong rebellion,

I, my child, and all my kin,

And Judea’s long lost freedom

Once again we sought to win.

But the great decree of Heaven

Was against our glorious band;

And at Bethar’s bloody battle

Died the noblest of the land.

Yet the fierce and vengeful Roman,

Not content with such a prize,

Heeded not our women’s mourning,

Heeded not our children’s cries.

But he cast them from their country,

From their own and native soil;

Sold them into dreadful bondage,

To a life of hated toil.

Then defiled the sacred places

With a ruthless hand and bold;

And the heathen dwells unpunished

Where the priesthood dwelt of old.

They have changed the walks of Zion,

Even changed her sacred name;

They have reared a heathen temple

On the ruins of our fame.

And to fill the cup of sorrow,

And to fill it to the brim,

Hadrian hurled his mighty fiat

With a purpose stern and grim,

That within yon sacred portals

Israel’s foot may never tread,

Though beneath that soil lie buried

All the dearest of our dead.

Bitter, child, are all the tortures

Of a cruel, heartless foe;

Yet a life of hopeless exile

Is by far the greatest woe.

Here upon the Mount of Olives,

Once a year, we still may meet,

Where the city of our fathers

May our tearful vision greet.

So we gather from the mountains

And we gather from the plain;

Here, amid her desolation,

We behold her once again.

Till the sturdy sons of Judah

Break the Roman’s haughty pride,

Never shall I cease my mourning

Never shall my tears be dried.

For I trust, the Lord in heaven,

Mindful of his chosen gem,

Will some day restore to glory

Israel and Jerusalem.