Blest Land of Judea

Blest land of Ju­dea!

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 thy 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 mount­ain

Stern Ze­bu­lon came

And Nap­tha­li’s stay

With his eye­balls of flame

And the cha­ri­ots of Ja­bin

Rolled harm­less­ly on

For the strength 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.

O 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.

But where­fore this dream

Of the earth­ly abode

Of hu­man­ity clothed

In the bright­ness of God?

There my Spir­it but turned

From the out­ward and dim

It could gaze

ev­en now

On the pre­sence of Him.

Not in clouds and in ter­rors

But gen­tle as when

In love and in meek­ness

He moved among men;

And the voice which breathed peace

To the waves of the sea

In the hush of my Spir­it

Would whis­per to me!

And what if my feet

May not tread where He trod

These ears hear the dash­ing

Of Ga­li­lee’s flood

Nor my eyes see the cross

Which He bowed Him to bear

Nor my knees press Geth­se­ma­ne’s

Garden of pray­er

Yet

loved of the Fa­ther

Thy Spir­it is near

To the meek and the low­ly

And the pe­ni­tent here;

And the voice of Thy love

Is the same ev­en now

As at Beth­any’s tomb

Or on Ol­iv­et’s brow.

Oh

the out­ward hath gone!—

But in glo­ry and pow­er

The Spir­it sur­viv­eth

The things of an hour;

Unchanged

un­de­cay­ing

Is Pen­te­cost flame

On the heart’s secret al­tar

Is burn­ing the same.