God’s Chosen People

IN the sadness of your eyes

I see the grief of ages;

Your voices throb

With the sob

Of hearts forever still.

Yet yours the soul of sages—

You are alive,

Tho’ nations strive

Your cup of pain to fill:

Yet you call yourselves God’s Chosen People,

Yet you humbly bow to God’s Great Will.

In your tills you hoard your gold,

In dread of gloomy morrow;

In fear of fire,

Tyrant’s ire,

And sword of those who spill

Your blood, and bring you sorrow!

A hunted race,

Fell fate you face,

When foes are out to kill:

Yet you call yourselves God’s Chosen People,

Yet you humbly bow to God’s Great Will.

On this soil of Man’s free rights,

I would not have your riches!

Your pomp and pride,

None can bide.

Your wives in flounce and frill,

Their Eastern charm bewitches…

And yet my breast,

Remains at rest,

Nor does with envy thrill:

But oh! teach me your faith, you strange people,

Teach me to humbly bow to God’s Great Will.