Jerusalem Poem by John Pierpont

Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
How glad should I have been,
Could I, in my lone wanderings,
Thine aged walls have seen!-
Could I have gazed upon the dome,
Above thy towers that swells,
And heard, as evening's sun went down,
Thy parting camels' bells:-


Could I have stood on Olivet,
Where once the Saviour trod,
And, from its height, looked down upon
The city of our God!
For is it not, Almighty God,
Thy holy city still,-
Though there thy prophets walk no more,-
That crowns Moriah's hill?


Thy prophets walk no more, indeed,
The streets of Salem now,
Nor are their voices lifted up
On Zion's saddened brow;
Nor are their garnished sepulchres
With pious sorrow kept,
Where once the same Jerusalem,
That killed them, came and wept.


But still the seed of Abraham
With joy upon it look,
And lay their ashes at its feet,
That Kedron's feeble brook
Still washes, as its waters creep
Along their rocky bed,
And Israel's God is worshipped yet
Where Zion lifts her head.


Yes;-every morning, as the day
Breaks over Olivet,
The holy name of Allah comes
From every minaret;
At every eve the mellow call
Floats on the quiet air,
'Lo, God is God! Before him come,
Before him come, for prayer!'


I know, when at that solemn call
The city holds her breath,
That Omar's mosque hears not the name
Of Him of Nazareth;
But Abraham's God is worshipped there
Alike by age and youth,
And worshipped,-hopeth charity,-
'In spirit and in truth.'


Yea, from that day when Salem knelt
And bent her queenly neck
To him who was, at once, her Priest
And King,-Melchisedek,
To this, when Egypt's Abraham
The sceptre and the sword
Shakes o'er her head, her holy men
Have bowed before the Lord.


Jerusalem, I would have seen
Thy precipices steep,
The trees of palm that overhang
Thy gorges dark and deep,
The goats that cling along thy cliffs,
And browse upon thy rocks,
Beneath whose shade lie down, alike,
Thy shepherds and their flocks.


I would have mused, while Night hung out
Her silver lamp so pale,
Beneath those ancient olive trees
That grow in Kedron's vale,
Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides
The city's wall sublime,
Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks
Defy the sithe of Time.


The Garden of Gethsemanè
Those aged olive trees
Are shading yet, and in their shade
I would have sought the breeze,
That, like an angel, bathed the brow,
And bore to heaven the prayer,
Of Jesus, when in agony,
He sought the Father there.


I would have gone to Calvary,
And, where the Marys stood
Bewailing loud the Crucified,
As near him as they could,
I would have stood, till Night o'er earth
Her heavy pall had thrown,
And thought upon my Saviour's cross,
And learned to bear my own.


Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
Thy cross thou bearest now!
An iron yoke is on thy neck,
And blood is on thy brow;
Thy golden crown, the crown of truth,
Thou didst reject as dross,
And now thy cross is on thee laid,
The Crescent is thy cross!


It was not mine, nor will it be,
To see the bloody rod
That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged,
Thou city of our God!
But round thy hill the spirits throng
Of all thy murdered seers,
And voices that went up from it
Are ringing in my ears,-


Went up that day, when darkness fell
From all thy firmament,
And shrouded thee at noon; and when
Thy temple's vail was rent,
And graves of holy men, that touched
Thy feet, gave up their dead:-
Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard,

His blood is on thy head!