Heinrich Heine and the Death of God

The Silesian Weavers Heinrich Heine In gloomy eyes there wells no tear. Grinding their teeth, they are sitting here: Germany, your shroud's on our loom; And in it we weave the threefold doom. We weave; we weave. Doomed be the God who was deaf to our prayer In Winter's cold and hunger's despair. All in vain we hoped and bided; He only mocked us, hoaxed, derided. We weave; we weave. Doomed be the king, the rich man's king, Who would not be moved by our suffering, Who tore the last coin out of our hands, And let us be shot by his blood-thirsty bands. We weave; we weave. Doomed be the fatherland,

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