Through every precinct of the wintry city

Squadroned iron resounds upon the streets;

Herod’s police

Make shudder the dark steps of the tenements

At the business about to be done.

Neither look back upon Thy starry country,

Nor hear what rumors crowd across the dark

Where blood runs down those holy walls,

Nor frame a childish blessing with Thy hand

Towards that fiery spiral of exulting souls!

Go, Child of God, upon the singing desert,

Where, with eyes of flame,

The roaming lion keeps thy road from harm.