I
The prince who once left an ancient city
for the sands in which were only snakes and lizards,
the vulture and the owl—wilderness that led to wilderness—
has become this stranger,
whose pillow is a stone,
who leads a flock from well to well
no faster than the lambs can walk,
afraid
of those whose water and whose land it is;

the servant who once served a master well—
Potiphar and Pharaoh—has become a tribesman with matted hair,
this slave, the son of a slave;
a desert fox
become a faithless dog, fawning
upon the sleek Egyptian for a fish,
afraid,
and snarling at the whip
that lifts him from his sleep.

The water is bitter—you must learn to drink it;
the food you gather will not last—
wormy by morning;
you must gather it again.

Your enemies have forbidden you this peace—
this place;
you will find another—
a land of milk and honey,
of springs and fruit trees.

The timid folk that once ran before the horses of their masters
into the wilderness
to cry out at last for bread and remember with longing
the fish and cool melons of Egypt and find nothing
except pools of bitter water to drink—
serpents underfoot and swords in the hands of enemies,
until the weak and meek, the kind and gentle, died,
have become these savages
from the rocks

who troop down howling
to take no man alive
either to draw water or gather twigs,
to whom the women and their children are as baleful,
who burn pots and jugs,
clothing and ornaments,
in the fire
that leaves a heap of blackened stones
where once a quiet people lived;

those wanderers who, fainting in the
heat of day and freezing by night,
still led a few sheep and goats
from wilderness to wilderness, picking their food
from the bushes and scrabbling in the sand for roots,
are now these churls,
become fat
in fenced cities and walled towns—
in ivory houses,

among olive trees and fig trees, vineyards
and fields of barley and wheat,
with cattle feeding beside streams and fattening in stalls,
with man servants and maid servants,
jugs of oil and jars of wine, jewels of silver and jewels of gold;
for whom the Tyrians 
bring embroidered shirts and swords with jeweled hilts
and slaves with sticks
to run before the chariot shouting, “Kneel, kneel!”

This meat is forbidden—you must not eat it;
lusts of the belly and the loins!
Your neighbor’s house, your neighbor’s cattle,
your neighbor’s wife, and the stranger’s god—
all are forbidden!

Be just
to each other, to your servant, to the needy and stranger;
for you were needy in the wilderness
and servants and strangers in Egypt.

Those who were farmers and herdsmen
in the villages of Judah,
owners of vineyards and olive-yards in the hills—
far from great rivers and cities,
walking slowly as their cattle,
and for whom time was measured slowly
by the seasons,
now live from day to day among the weeds
where the streets end

and the sewers of Babylon empty
into the river,
hurry along,
searching the gutter and rubbish heaps
or selling salt
in the bustle of Rome—
are now carried by the waves and winds
to the uttermost islands and lands,
exiles and captives;

those who left their land
for all the neighboring countries—
standing in the
puddles of the galleys
or following
the chariots, chained together,
to be howled at in towns
and stared at
by the shepherds—

are these Jews
in the cities of Persia and Spain,
in Egypt and England,
who have houses of stone and green fields,
chests heavy with coins and books,
who ride out gingerly on mules and horses
to sell damask and furs and spice,
lend money to the lords,
and become uneasy physicians and counsellors of kings.

Among men who gorge and swill
and sleep in their vomit
be temperate and clean;
among men who lust and whore
be true; among men in armor
be men of peace; among men in robes who fast and scourge themselves and go about 
in hair shirts, preaching love and hell fire,
be men of sense; among men who torture
be Jews.

Those who lived in villages and alleys,
in huts and cellars,
selling a calf shrewdly
and buying a sack of wheat cheap
to sell cupfuls
for a copper—
who were pillaged and murdered
in the cities of Germany,
in Spain and Russia,

from York to Ispahan—
their sons
stand up to plead—
in every language—
for the poor
and wronged,
teach by formula and picture,
speech and music—
heal and save!

You who envied Edom
and were afraid of
Egypt, whose soldiers were like the sands for number,
like the stars,
Judah was buried in Jerusalem
to flourish;
burnt—
to step out of the sea
among the breaking waves.

II
Despite this and despite this,
despite this and despite this, too;
for we are a stubborn people.

The bulls of Assyria gored and trampled us
and the jackals and hawks of Egypt tore us to bits
and the eagles of Rome feasted upon us,
and yet despite that and despite that—
why not, Israel,
despite this and despite this, too!