Flings loose its shadows on the lap of God.
Briars and dust upon my brow, unshod,
In pilgrim weeds athwart a vineless land,
My feet shall pass and mark the path aright,
For lo! Thy staff and rod are in my hand;
And with the light Thy city shall unfurl
Its golden oriflames and tents of pearl—
Dead Babylon, thy gilden clasp I flee;
Jerusalem, lift up thy gates to me!