Palestine

Blest land of Judæa! thrice hallowed of song,

Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng;

In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea,

On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee.

With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore

Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before;

With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod

Made bright by the steps of the angels of God.

Blue sea of the hills! in my spirit I hear

Thy waters, Gennesaret, chime on my ear;

Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down,

And thy spray on the dust of His sandals was thrown.

Beyond are Bethulia’s mountains of green,

And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene;

And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see

The gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee!

Hark, a sound in the valley! where, swollen and strong,

Thy river, O Kishon, is sweeping along;

Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain,

And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain.

There down from his mountains stern Zebulon came,

And Naphthali’s stag, with his eyeballs of flame,

And the chariots of Jabin rolled harmlessly on,

For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam’s son!

There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang

To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang,

When the princes of Issachar stood by her side,

And the shout of a host in its triumph replied.

Lo, Bethlehem’s hill-site before me is seen,

With the mountains around, and the valleys between;

There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there

The song of the angels rose sweet on the air.

And Bethany’s palm-trees in beauty still throw

Their shadows at noon on the ruins below;

But where are the sisters who hastened to greet

The lowly Redeemer, and sit at His feet?

I tread where the twelve in their wayfaring trod;

I stand where they stood with the chosen of God—

Where His blessing was heard and His lessons were taught,

Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought.

Oh, here with His flock the sad Wanderer came;

These hills He toiled over in grief are the same;

The founts where He drank by the wayside still flow,

And the same airs are blowing which breathed on His brow!

And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet,

But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet;

For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone,

And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone.