J. W. D. Anderson.
WITH weary feet the Prophet climbs the hill
O'erlooking the fair land of Palestine.
His eyes, unSatisfied, feast on each rill
Or fertile plain, or palm tree's silvery sheen.
He may not enter, though his inmost soul
Perish with longing for the promised land;
The beauteous vision fades, as o'er him roll
The burial clods piled by Jehovah's hand.
For fifteen centuries Judea lay,
Her thousand hilltops glistening in the sun,
Until Mount Sinai's scepter passed away;
And Bethlehem's star proclaimed all nations one.
Now, on Mount Hermon's brow, a group we see
With garments whiter than the driven snow,
And Moses walks, with step untrammeled, free,
The land at which he gazed so long ago.