12 JEPHTHAH.
And his mighty hand
Grips a mighty mace.
He would shatter, did we call,
Sons of Ammon one and all,
Did we fear not lest his eye
Turn back covetous to try
For our palaces, to rule
Where the far blue Syrian sky
Stretches, where the clouds as wool
Mark the white Arabian border,
To become a tyrant king
Where his sword came conquering.
Out of chaos rises order
On her wide unwearying wing,
But the desolate marauder
Never over us shall swing
Such a sceptre as should bring
Sorrow to one home of ours.
Better bear the heavy hours
Under God’s avenging breath,
Better brave the horrid powers,
Nor avoid the foreign death,
Humbling all our pride before
God’s most holy throne, abasing
Every man’s strong soul, and facing
All the heathen Ammon bore
On the angry shore,
Trusting to the mercy rare
Of Jehovah, than to bare
Hearts and bosoms to a friend