Turn my daughters, full of woe,
Is my heart so sad and lone?
Leave me children—I would go
To my loved and distant home.
From my bosom death has torn
Husband, children, all my stay,
Left me not a single one,
For my life’s declining day.
Want and woe surround my way,
Grief and famine where I tread;
In my native land they say
God is giving Jacob bread.
Naomi ceased, her daughters wept,
Their yearning hearts were filled;
Falling upon her withered neck,
Their grief in tears distill’d.
Like rain upon a blighted tree,
The tears of Orpah fell;
Kissing the pale and quivering lip,
She breathed her sad farewell.
But Ruth stood up, on her brow
There lay a heavenly calm;
And from her lips came, soft and low,
Words like a holy charm.
I will not leave thee, on thy brow
Are lines of sorrow, age and care;
Thy form is bent, thy step is slow,
Thy bosom stricken, lone and sear.
Oh! when thy heart and home were glad,
I freely shared thy joyous lot;
And now that heart is lone and sad,
Cease to entreat—I’ll leave thee not.
Oh! if a lofty palace proud
Thy future home shall be;
Where sycophants around thee crowd,
I’ll share that home with thee.
And if on earth the humblest spot,
Thy future home shall prove;
I’ll bring into thy lonely lot
The wealth of woman’s love.
Go where thou wilt, my steps are there,
Our path in life is one;
Thou hast no lot I will not share,
’Till life itself be done.
My country and my home for thee,
I freely, willingly resign,
Thy people shall my people be,
Thy God he shall be mine.
Then, mother dear, entreat me not
To turn from following thee;
My heart is nerved to share thy lot,
Whatever that may be.