Herein again you see our fateful lot,
Eternal weeping and eternal groans!
They knock their heads against the temple walls
And yet, in truth, for this they should be blessed,
For their despondent grief is but a sign,
A living witness that we are alive.
Though we are scorned and endlessly complain;
Just as a river flows beneath the ice
Thus underneath the Roman tyrant’s yoke
A nation lives and who shall still its voice?
Before this wall, the ices are released,
We are, we live, we breathe and feel again,
Once more we are a Nation; ’tis this that really counts.