The Idol of Dura 11s & 8s

Lo! Dura is shouting the war cry of Hell,
Now lit is her symbol of flame;
The hosts of the heathen are bowing to Bel,
And mocking the earth with his name!
But Zion the desolate, wasted and low,
Shall give to Jehovah her trust,
And find in the giant of Babel a foe,
To lay, like Goliath, in dust.

Ah! where is her chief without buckler or spear,
The minstrel that guarded her throne?
His harp has no music for Babylon's ear,
It sighs on her willows alone.
The spirit that woke in his bosom of old,
That prompted his courage and wrath,
That snatch'd from the lion the lamb of his fold,
And conquered the demon of Gath.