Not from Je­ru­sa­lem alone,
To Heav’n the path as­cends;
As near, as sure, as straight the way
That leads to the ce­les­ti­al day,
From far­thest realms ex­tends;
Frigid or tor­rid zone.

What mat­ters how or whence we start?
One is the crown to all;
One is the hard but glo­ri­ous race,
Whatever be our start­ing place—
Rings round the earth the call
That says, Arise, de­part!

From the balm breath­ing, sun loved isles,
Of the bright south­ern sea,
From the dead north’s cloud sha­dowed pole,
We gather to one glad­some goal,
One com­mon home in Thee,
City of sun and smiles!

The cold, rough bil­low hin­ders none;
Nor helps the calm, fair main;
The brown rock of Nor­we­gian gloom,
The ver­dure of Ta­hi­tian bloom,
The sands of Miz­ra­im’s plain,
Or peaks of Le­ba­non.

As from the green lands of the vine,
So from the snow wastes pale,
We find the ev­er op­en road
To the dear ci­ty of our God;
From steppe, or Bur­man vale,
Or ter­raced Pa­les­tine.

Not from swift Jor­dan’s sac­red stream
Alone we mount above;
Indus or Dan­ube, Thames or Rhone,
Rivers un­saint­ed and un­known—
From each the home of love
Beckons with heav’n­ly gleam.

Not from gray Ol­iv­et alone
We see the gates of light;
From Mor­ven’s heath or Jung­frau’s snow
We wel­come the des­cend­ing glow
Of pearl and chry­so­lite
And the un­set­ting sun.

Not from Je­ru­sa­lem alone
The Church as­cends to God;
Strangers of ev­ery tongue and clime,
Pilgrims of ev­ery land and time,
Throng the well trod­den road
That leads up to the throne.