In the night of the seven-hill’d city, disrobed, and uncrown’d,
and undone,
Thou moanest, O Rizpah, Madonna, and countest the hones of
thy son.
The bier is vacant above thee, His corpse is no longer thereon,
A wind came out of the dark, and he fell as a leaf, and is gone!
They have taken thy crown, O Rizpah, and driven thee forth
with the swine,
But the bones of thy Son they have left thee—yea, wash them
with tears—they are thine!