Musik Macht Traurig

I went walking through

these halls like Jeremiah

in Jerusalem. This roof

will be my temple, this

stream shall be the Jordan.

The banks I will name

Mamre, though there is

here no oak (to my dismay).

How can I sing the

Lord’s song without

the choir?

Let crickets be the choir,
let there be an assembly
of stones. Exiles cannot
ask for better.

Only—my God!—let there

be a sound of thunder

and a smell of pine,

a smell of pine and

the cold salt of the sea.