For our poor meadows cannot thrive
On just the memory of Thy feet,
Which trod them once and found them sweet.
Our tears, our sweat, must give them life,
For Thou, our Lord, hast gone on high
To golden countries of the sky,
To golden fields of golden stars,
Beyond the echo of our strife....
Yet there, upon the shining hill,
Thou dreamest of our meadows still,