O hadst thou known, in this day,
The things be­long­ing to thy peace!
He spake, and wept. Adown the way
The rude pro­cess­ion’s ranks in­crease:
With shout and song, as on He rode,
Children and men their gar­ments strowed.

And see, that host His path­way lines
With boughs, as in tri­um­phal hour:
Some poor ephe­me­ral splen­dor shines,
Some hint of sub­lu­na­ry pow’r,
For Him who naught of gran­deur needs
From shout­ing hosts or pranc­ing steeds.

Was this a time for mist of tears,
When sun­shine bright­ened o’er His way,
When pæn-prais­es filled His ears,
And Sa­lem seemed at last to pay
Her hom­age due, ere­while re­fused—
Why wept He as He paused and mused?

What were a peo­ple’s shouts to Him?
Earth’s proud­est pomp, her king­li­est crown?
He saw the light of Is­ra­el dim,
Twice dead the blos­som of re­nown;
And hol­low rites for ser­vice paid
To Him who claims the heart He made.

And thus, if fan­cy dare ex­plore
The thoughts that stirred His soul to weep,
Sad voic­es, as from some far off shore
Rolls the low mur­mur of the deep,
Came o’er Him—all the fu­ture vast
Blent with long ech­oes of the past.

“Bright as a star in Hea­ven’s own blue,
Light of the lands, I saw thee shine;
Kings from afar thy bright­ness knew,
The gifts of She­ba decked thy shrine:
Thou were a roy­al stone and gem
Set on My heart, Je­ru­sa­lem!

“I see thee as thou sat’st of yore,
A queen in beau­ty; but thy gold
Is tar­nished; lov­ers come no more
To seek thee; from thy hand hath rolled
Thy scep­ter, laid in dust; and now
The con­quer­or’s brand is on thy brow.

“But he who dares thy doom por­tray,
Self-doomed, thy sac­ri­fice ex­pires;
Build, as of old, their tombs ye slay;
Fill up the mea­sure of your sires;
Nor deem thy black­est crime shall stem
Earth’s tide of woes, Je­ru­sa­lem!

“But woe to her who scorns her Lord,
The land that cru­ci­fies her king!
I see the ali­en ar­mies poured
Around her—hear the ang­uish ring!
Your house lies de­so­late—ye roam
A by­word, yearn­ing for your home.

I go where sits in glo­ry crowned
Each her­ald of the Lord ye slew;
And Gen­tile tongues His praise shall sound
In seats of joy pre­pared for you:
Thy name, thy place, is giv­en to them,
My bride, My new Je­ru­sa­lem!

But hark! the thrill­ing shout, more nigh,
Peals on the air with joy­ous glee;
They chant His migh­ty works, and cry,
This is the Christ of Ga­li­lee!
In low­li­est state He moves along,
And Sa­lem’s gate re­ceives the throng.