Classic Poem

I seek the fields, the gardens fair,
And stumble o'er the bloody slain;
I creep within the gates again,
And lo, they die of famine there.

The prophet wanders in amaze,
As one who gropeth with the hand;
He knoweth not his native land,
He findeth not the ancient ways.

Why hast Thou scorned Jerusalem,
And hated all Thy holy hill?
Why hast Thou smitten us, until
No hand may heal the broken stem?

We know our wickedness, O Lord,
The wickedness of son and sire;
Yet veil Thy countenance of ire,
Nor hold us evermore abhorred.

Because of Thy majestic name,
Because Thy throne is glorious,
Break not Thy covenant with us,
Thy prostrate people, clothed in shame.