The weary psalmist paused
His instrument beside.
Departed was the Sabbath
and the Sabbath Bride.

The table was decayed,
the candles black and cold.
The bread he sang so beautifully,
That bread was mould.

He turned toward his lute,
Trembling in the night.
He thought he knew no music
to make the morning right.

Abandoned was the Law,
Abandoned was the King.
Unaware he took his instrument,
His habit was to sing.

He sang and nothing changed
though many heard his song.
But soon his facе was beautiful
and soon his limbs were strong.