Burst out in wailing riot,
Thou darkling martyr-lay,
That in my soul, flame-quiet,
I've borne this many a day!

It thrills through every hearing
And so the heart doth gain.
I've conjured up, unfearing,
The thousand-year-old pain.

Great, little, weep and even
Cold hearts do tearful grow :
The small stars weep in heaven,
The maids and flowers below.

The tears, still southward fleeting,
To the still conclave go
And all, each other meeting,
Into the Jordan flow.