From the immortal crowns the angels offer ?
What ! are we Jews and are afraid of death ?
Grod's chosen people, shall we stand a-tremble
Before our Father, as the Gentiles use?

Shall the smoke choke us, father ? or the flame
Consume our flesh ?

I know not, boy. Be sure
The Lord will temper the shrewd pain for those
Who trust in Him.

May I stand by thy side.
And hold my hand in thine until the end?

(Aside.) What solace hast thou, God, in all thy heavens
For such an hour as this ? Yea, hand in hand
We walk, my son, through fire, to meet the Lord.
Yet there is one among us shall not bum.
A secret shaft long rankling in my heart,
Now I withdraw, and die. Our general doom,
Liebhaid, is not for thee. Thou art no Jewess.
Thy father is the man who wills our death ;
Lord Henry Schnetzen.