250 CRACOVIA
Through fiery smoke, through brothers' blood and ashes
To Thee, O Lord, our fearful prayers ring out
In terrible lamentation, like the Last Shout.
Our hair grows grey from such entreaties.
Our songs are filled with sorrow's invocation;
Our brows are pierced by crowns of rooted thorn;
Our outstretched hands are raised to Thee in supplication
Like monuments to Thy wrath, eternally forlorn.^4