When we speak of Israel's wand'rings,
Mournful is the dirge and low;
Naught of joy relieves our pond'rings,
Only thoughts of grief and woe.
But still deeper grows the sadness,
And still louder Israel's moan,
Unrelieved by aught of gladness
When the Church to heaven is gone.
Hated for their name and nation,
Round them storms and tempests low'r;
Crushed 'neath dreadful tribulation,
Wielded by resistless power.
But when trembling for the morrow,
Groaning in their deep distress,
Then, while in their, deepest sorrow,
Soars the Sun of Righteousness (Mal. 4:2).
Rising in a cloud of glory,
Light and healing on His wings,
Ends glad Israel's mournful story,
And their hearts with rapture sing-