1   On Jordan’s banks the Arab’s camels stray,   On Sion’s hill the false one’s votaries pray,      The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai’s steep—      Yet there—even there—Oh God! thy thunders sleep. 2   There—where thy finger scorch’d the tablet stone.   There—where thy Shadow to thy people shone!      Thy Glory shrouded in its garb of fire:—      Thyself—none living see and not expire!— 3   Oh! in the lightning—let thy glance appear!   Sweep from his shiver’d hand the oppressor’s spear:      How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod!      How long thy temple worshipless! Oh God?