Lo, the lords of the city have disappeared into darkness,
The ancient wilderness hath swallowed up all their work.
There is nothing left of the city but a heap of fragments;
The bones of a vessel broken by the storm.
Behold the waves of the desert wait hungrily for man's dwellings,
And the tides of desolation return upon his toil.
All that he hath painfully built up is shaken down in a moment,
The memory of his glory is buried beneath the billows of sand.
Then a voice said, Look again upon the ruins,
These broken arches have taught generations to build.
Moreover the name of this city shall be remembered,
For here a poor man spoke a word that shall not die.
This is the glory that is stronger than the desert;
God hath given eternity to the thought of man.
THE TRIBE OF THE HELPERS
The ways of the world are full of haste and turmoil;
I will sing of the tribe of the helpers who travel in peace.
He that turneth from the road to rescue another,
Turneth toward his goal:
He shall arrive in time by the foot-path of mercy,
God will be his guide.