The city He loved so well,
Where He deign'd, like a couching lion,
In glory and strength to dwell.
And why hath Jehovah forsaken
The place of His ancient throne;
His Vine from the wilderness taken,
To flourish for Him alone?
Ah! deem not the Holy One cruel;
Had Solyma loved His will,
She had sparkled the costliest jewel,
The beauty of nations, still;
The Lord had been still her defender,
And she, the queen of the earth,
In holiness, freedom, and splendor,
Had gloried in Shiloh's birth.
But she fell-and her crown of glory
Was struck from her rebel brow;
And with feet all wounded and gory,
She wanders in exile now.
Yet, sad one, distrust not our pity;
Though some may wring out thy tears,
We will weep for the Holy City,
And sorrow o'er former years.
Thou art stricken, dethroned, and lowly,
Bereft of a home on earth,
Yet still to our hearts thou art holy,
Thou land of Messiah's birth!
He sprang from thy chosen of daughters,
His star o'er thy hills arose,
He bathed in thy soft-flowing waters,
And wept o'er thy coming woes.
He wept, who in secret yet lingers,
With yearnings of heart, o'er thee;
He, He, whom thy blood-sprinkled lingers
Once nailed to the cursed tree.
Dark deed! it was thine to afflict Him;
Yet longs His soul for the day
When thou, in the blood of thy victim,
Shalt wash thy deep stains away.
Thou land of the Cross, and the glory,
Whose brightness at last will shine
Afar through the earth-what a story
Of darkness and light is thine!
He died as a lamb:-as a lion,
He spares thee, nor can forget
His desolate Exile of Zion;
He waits to be gracious yet.
-Sir Edward Denny, Bart.