To follow him, unquestioning, mute,
If 'twere the Lord himself?
How many a brow with care o'erworn,
How many a heart with grief o'er-laden,
How many a man with woe forlorn,
How many a mourning maiden,
Would leave the baffling earthly prize,
Which fails the earthly weak endeavor,
To gaze into those holy eyes
And drink content forever!