BEZALEL, filled with wisdom to design Stones, precious wood, rich-embroidered fabrics, gold, Fed not the few with cunning manifold Nor empty loveliness; his art divine Set up a tabernacle as a sign Of oneness for a rabble many-souled, So that each span of desert should behold A nomad people with a steadfast shrine. But we, its sons, who wander in the dark, Footsore, far-scattered, growing less and less, What whiteness glooms our brotherhood to mark, What promised land our journey's end to bless! We are, unless we build some shrine or ark, A dying rabble in a wilderness. |