I share the sorrows of an ancient tribe
That wanders in the wilderness of Time,
A prey to loneliness (the Hebrew’s curse);
Its staff, the wisdom of the kingly Scribe

At Sinai; and the fateful covenant
With Abraham its comfort. In the terse,
Dry subsoil of its prayers grow sublime
Laws of Conscience; in its naked chant

Swell master harmonies of Man and God!
I share the sadness of a homeless race
That lives in terror of the flailing rod
Of circumstance, and the angry face

Which Destiny presents to it. I share
The awful burdens that my people bear.

Copyright (2006) by Arnold Cantor.
All rights reserved.

[Written 1958.]