Their watches still on every hill where flocks, unsheltered sleep.
And people walk with living fear lest, singing while it fell,
Should shine upon some midnight clear the star that is a shell.
Loud are the bells in Palestine where there’s a sentry stationed,
And still the oil and still the wine are blessed before they’re rationed,
And criers chant the Sabbath for the faithful and the stranger,
But now the bugles blow no more except the song of danger.
Lower your gates, Jerusalem. Make mute the sacred horn w
While dark comes down upon that town wherein the Light was born.
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