On, people of God; for, wherever ye roam,
Your road leads through the world to eternity, home.
[The march begins in silence. At the head of the procession, the king is borne in a litter. In due order, tribe by tribe, the wanderers fall into line and move towards the gate. They gaze heavenward, singing as they march, so that the exodus has the solemnity of a religious procession. There is neither haste nor lagging, but a rhythmic movement forward. The files succeed one another in an endless train. An infinite on the march]
First Chorus of Wanderers
In strangers’ houses now must we dwell,
Eating bread salted with tears.
By an enemy’s hearth, with souls full of dread,
Must we sit upon stools of shame.
The weight of the years will lie heavy upon us
When, captives and bondmen, we must serve men of might.