And distant echoes of heart-broken moans—
Jerusalem’s daughters mourning so the thrall
Of Him, their fairest one, to death betrayed,
The hands that blessed their little ones so sore arrayed.
Where is the dying King the cross uplifts?
We cannot see him, and our upraised eyes
Meet but the awful gloom in far-off skies,
The lurid moon dull gazing through the rifts
Of gathering darkness; here the waiting glare
Of cruel sunshine making all the city fair.