Poems (Trask)/The Pilgrim
THE PILGRIM.
Jerusalem! ah, can it be Mine eyes behold thy towers? The slanting sunlight pours on thee Its' floods of crimson flowers; Thy heights rise up, dim, weird, and grim, Against the blood-red sky: Jerusalem! Jerusalem! In holy awe I cry.
But where, oh where, the pride and pomp Swayed once within thy walls? Oh, where the gorgeous panoply Of Herod's palace halls? Oh, where the shrine, and sacred cups, The temple, font, and throne, Ere Saracen and ruthless Turk Profaned the altar-stone?
The sword, the devastating sword, Has made thee desolate; And never more, oh, Palestine! Shalt thou be called the great. The Cross and Crescent o'er thy hills Have held alternate sway; And Israel's persecuted tribes Have vainly looked for day.
And where the date, and feathery palm, And ancient cedars grew, The Gentile plows have torn the soil, Disturbed the hallowed dew; And feet unsanctified have pressed The turf of Zion's hill; And foreign hordes laved in the flood Of Cedron's holy rill.
The Mount of Olives! awful gloom Hovers abroad o'er thee! He wept and prayed upon thy brow In deepest agony! And from thy summit, pure and wise His words like balm distilled; And Jew, and scribe, and Pharisee With awe of Him were filled.
Jerusalem! Jerusalem! I've wandered o'er the sea, And passed by many a classic shrine, Dreaming the while of thee. And resting 'neath this fig-tree's shade, I gaze on all thy dearth; But still, Jerusalem, thou art The holiest spot on earth!