The Idol of Dura

Lo! Dura is shout­ing the war cry of Hell—

Now lit is her sym­bol of flame—

The hosts of the hea­then are bow­ing to Bel

And mock­ing the earth with his name!

But Zi­on the de­so­late—wast­ed and low

Shall give to Je­ho­vah her trust—

And find in the giant of Ba­bel a foe

To lay

like Go­li­ath

in dust.

Ah! where is her chief with­out buck­ler or spear

The min­strel that guard­ed her throne?

His harp has no mu­sic for Ba­by­lon’s ear

It sighs on her wil­lows alone.

The spir­it that woke in his bo­som of old

That prompt­ed his cour­age and wrath

That snatched from the li­on the lamb of his fold

And con­quered the de­mon of Gath.

That spir­it

en­kin­dled in Ju­dah again

The heart of her child­ren in­spires;

It speaks for Je­ho­vah

from Ba­by­lon’s chain

And scoffs at her fur­nace of fire.

Now list­en

Chal­dea—the wise and the brave

Thus an­swer thy rul­er’s com­mand:

“The God whom we wor­ship is able to save—

The God of our de­so­late land.

We speak not of mer­cy

proud mon­arch

to thee

We wait not for life on thy breath

And ere to thine idol we of­fer the knee

We wel­come thy man­date of death.

They cease—and the hea­then is burn­ing with ire

The strife of op­press­ion and shame;

The brow of his an­ger is flash­ing with fire

That glows in the fur­nace of flame.

See

Ju­dah! thy chiefs

in their gen­tle­ness strong

Are bear­ing the sen­tence of wrath:

How no­bly they suf­fer

who suf­fer the wrong!

How pure is the light on their path!

So bound

they are borne to the cal­dron of doom—

Ah

Ba­bel! thy ven­geance is vain—

The He­brews are walk­ing un­hurt in its tomb!

The men of Chal­dea are slain!

Now

mon­arch of Ba­by­lon

calm is thy rage

Thy pas­sions have wast­ed their storm;

But what doth the eye of thy won­der eng­age?

An an­gel

or man in that form?

The shout of the hea­then is ech­oed no more;

The voice of the harp­er is low;

The hea­then is bid­ding the na­tion adore—

And own­ing the faith of his foe!

For there

like a beam from the glo­ry on high

Unmixed with the fierce­ness of flame

He sees with the vic­tims he des­tined to die

A guard­ian he trem­bles to name.

Behold them! he cries

’tis the sig­nal di­vine—

Unharmed in des­truct­ion they stand.

O Ju­dah! no God can de­liv­er like thine

Let thine be the God of the land.