Thy plains and forest wide,
Until I stand on Gilead and discern
Mount Hor and Mount Abarim, ’neath whose crest
Thy luminaries twain, thy guides and beacons rest.
Thy air is life unto my soul, thy grains
Of dust are myrrh, thy streams with honey flow
Naked and barefoot to thy ruined fanes
How gladly would I go!
To where the ark was treasured, and in dim
Recesses dwelt the holy cherubim.