Jamila now complains aloudOf deprivation, O Zaynab proud;
Jamila seeks a tender handAnd gives it freely, uncommanded;
Today I feel my anguish soreWith no relief, no open door;
I thought of thee there, O my mother,Whilst longing here would seek none other;
My pains assail me, one by one,I dread the horror I must shun;
A stranger in the world I live,Yet terror cannot make me give;
Each living soul knows not his fate —Who knows may flee before too late;
He lives here on my weary strain,Yet burden cannot make me wane;
My faith dissolves what hardship brings —The faithful soul is never king's;
By feeling, Lord, I know thee near —None else is object of my prayer.
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