And he was firm - his will was like an iron fist.
His great appeal had thundered like the ring of metal.
And called to us: "My children, forward into battle!"
And he led us forth, and onward to the east;
And sang of happy life his people would resume,
Within the native borders of the promised land.
Alas! The fire of his ideal his heart consumed.
His song broke off - he died when life was still in bloom.
But his unfinished song - God witness - we will end!

So rest in peace, our eagle! - our sacred kingly tribune,
The hour will come; You'll hear the din of preparation;
The cracks of carts; the trample of the marching nation;
The high-pitched orders, and the sound of happy tunes.
Then from Adana to Beersheva, all along,
The name of him who saved the nation will be blessed.
And Zion will again resound with Jewish song;
And every year your happy fosterling will throng
To render homage where your dust is laid to rest.