Classic Poem

Before thee, Bel, we bow!
The glory of thy brow
Doth light us.
Thou art of gods supreme,
And thou in ways extreme
Canst smite us!

To dye thine altars red
For thee our foes have bled
And perished!
Thy power that never failed
Is through our city hailed
And cherished!

Oh, Lord of great Accad!
We strive to make thee glad
With treasure,
And by thy power the sky,
The sun and moon on high
We measure.

Within our naked breasts
Our ardor never rests;
We love thee;
And know that by the sun
Of gods there can be none
Above thee!

We are the seventy priests
Who guard thy rites and feasts,
Who hail thee!
We deal thy lightning blows
On one and all, when foes
Assail thee!

We bend before thee, Bel,
Thou only canst dispel
Our sorrow!
And on our weary knees
Wisdom from thy decrees
We borrow!

Thou art of gods supreme,
Thy hand in ways extreme
Can smite us!
Hail! for we humbly bow;
The glory of thy brow
Doth light us!