Jerusalem

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, How glad should I have been, Could I, in my lone wanderings, Thine aged walls have seen!-- Could I have gazed upon the dome, Above thy towers that swells, And heard, as evening's sun went down, Thy parting camels' bells:-- Could I have stood on Olivet, Where once the Saviour trod, And, from its height, looked down upon The city of our God! For is it not, Almighty God, Thy holy city still,-- Though there thy prophets walk no more,-- That crowns Moriah's hill? Thy prophets walk no more, indeed, The streets of Salem now, Nor are their voices lifted up On Zion's saddened brow; Nor are their garnished sepulchres With pious sorrow kept, Where once the same Jerusalem, That killed them, came and wept. But still the seed of Abraham With joy upon it look, And lay their ashes at its feet, That Kedron's feeble brook Still washes, as its waters creep Along their rocky bed, And Israel's God is worshipped yet Where Zion lifts her head. Yes;--every morning, as the day Breaks over Olivet, The holy name of Allah comes From every minaret; At every eve the mellow call Floats on the quiet air, "Lo, God is God! Before him come, Before him come, for prayer!" I know, when at that solemn call The city holds her breath, That Omar's mosque hears not the name Of Him of Nazareth; But Abraham's God is worshipped there Alike by age and youth, And worshipped,--hopeth charity,-- "In spirit and in truth." Yea, from that day when Salem knelt And bent her queenly neck To him who was, at once, her Priest And King,--Melchisedek, To this, when Egypt's Abraham The sceptre and the sword Shakes o'er her head, her holy men Have bowed before the Lord. Jerusalem, I would have seen Thy precipices steep, The trees of palm that overhang Thy gorges dark and deep, The goats that cling along thy cliffs, And browse upon thy rocks, Beneath whose shade lie down, alike, Thy shepherds and their flocks. I would have mused, while Night hung out Her silver lamp so pale, Beneath those ancient olive trees That grow in Kedron's vale, Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides The city's wall sublime, Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks Defy the sithe of Time. The Garden of Gethsemanè Those aged olive trees Are shading yet, and in their shade I would have sought the breeze, That, like an angel, bathed the brow, And bore to heaven the prayer, Of Jesus, when in agony, He sought the Father there. I would have gone to Calvary, And, where the Marys stood Bewailing loud the Crucified, As near him as they could, I would have stood, till Night o'er earth Her heavy pall had thrown, And thought upon my Saviour's cross, And learned to bear my own. Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Thy cross thou bearest now! An iron yoke is on thy neck, And blood is on thy brow; Thy golden crown, the crown of truth, Thou didst reject as dross, And now thy cross is on thee laid, The Crescent is thy cross! It was not mine, nor will it be, To see the bloody rod That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged, Thou city of our God! But round thy hill the spirits throng Of all thy murdered seers, And voices that went up from it Are ringing in my ears,-- Went up that day, when darkness fell From all thy firmament, And shrouded thee at noon; and when Thy temple's vail was rent, And graves of holy men, that touched Thy feet, gave up their dead:-- Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard, His blood is on thy head!