Poems (Trask)/The Pilgrim

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

THE PILGRIM.

Jerusalem! ah, can it be
 Mine eyes behold thy towers?
The slanting sunlight pours on thee
 Its' floods of crimson flowers;
Thy heights rise up, dim, weird, and grim,
 Against the blood-red sky:
Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
 In holy awe I cry.

But where, oh where, the pride and pomp
 Swayed once within thy walls?
Oh, where the gorgeous panoply
 Of Herod's palace halls?
Oh, where the shrine, and sacred cups,
 The temple, font, and throne,
Ere Saracen and ruthless Turk
 Profaned the altar-stone?

The sword, the devastating sword,
 Has made thee desolate;
And never more, oh, Palestine!
 Shalt thou be called the great.
The Cross and Crescent o'er thy hills
 Have held alternate sway;
And Israel's persecuted tribes
 Have vainly looked for day.

And where the date, and feathery palm,
 And ancient cedars grew,
The Gentile plows have torn the soil,
 Disturbed the hallowed dew;
And feet unsanctified have pressed
 The turf of Zion's hill;
And foreign hordes laved in the flood
 Of Cedron's holy rill.

The Mount of Olives! awful gloom
 Hovers abroad o'er thee!
He wept and prayed upon thy brow
 In deepest agony!
And from thy summit, pure and wise
 His words like balm distilled;
And Jew, and scribe, and Pharisee
 With awe of Him were filled.

Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
 I've wandered o'er the sea,
And passed by many a classic shrine,
 Dreaming the while of thee.
And resting 'neath this fig-tree's shade,
 I gaze on all thy dearth;
But still, Jerusalem, thou art
 The holiest spot on earth!