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.