Winged is each heart, and winged every heel,
They fly, yet notice scarce how fast they fly,
But by the time the dewless meads reveal
The golden sun ascended in the sky,
Lo! towered Jerusalem salutes the eye.
A thousand pointing fingers tell the tale,
“Jerusalem!” a thousand voices cry;
“All hail, Jerusalem!” hill, down, and dale
Catch the glad sound, and shout, “Jerusalem, all hail.”