The land be­fore them, where to choose—
They may not dwell at one—
Lay far and wide, on ei­ther side,
Beneath the morn­ing sun.

Here homes of rest, like Ed­en dressed,
And there, be­yond the skies,
The ci­ty stands not made with hands,
Nor seen with mor­tal eyes.

Who pitched his tent where sin­ners went,
Still keeps his spir­it whole;
Nor eye nor ear lets that way near,
Defilement to the soul.

The Lord knows how the saint­ed brow
To fence with ho­ly shame,
Sweet ang­el guest, un­known, but blest,
To pull us from the flame.

Straight to his noon, with staff and shoon,
The pil­grim climbs the hills;
And see the star of Christ afar,
Dim through the twi­light’s chills.

There, like a pall, o’er field and wall,
The fur­nace hangs its breath;
And Jor­dan’s waves those ci­ties’ graves
Heap with a sea of death.