Is it the trace of the warrior race

As they scour the trackless wide?

No! by the Cloudy Pillar!

No! by our Fiery Friend!

From the bush of flame the great I AM

Hath bidden us onward wend!

On to the Seventy Palm Trees!

On to the water’s brink!

Where the wayfaring rest on the green earth’s breast,

And the fainting pilgrims drink!