O Hadst Thou Known, in This Thy Day

O hadst thou known

in this day

The things be­long­ing to thy peace!

He spake

and wept. Adown the way

The rude pro­cess­ion’s ranks in­crease:

With shout and song

as on He rode

Children and men their gar­ments strowed.

And see

that host His path­way lines

With boughs

as in tri­um­phal hour:

Some poor ephe­me­ral splen­dor shines

Some hint of sub­lu­na­ry pow’r

For Him who naught of gran­deur needs

From shout­ing hosts or pranc­ing steeds.

Was this a time for mist of tears

When sun­shine bright­ened o’er His way

When pæn-prais­es filled His ears

And Sa­lem seemed at last to pay

Her hom­age due

ere­while re­fused—

Why wept He as He paused and mused?

What were a peo­ple’s shouts to Him?

Earth’s proud­est pomp

her king­li­est crown?

He saw the light of Is­ra­el dim

Twice dead the blos­som of re­nown;

And hol­low rites for serv­ice paid

To Him who claims the heart He made.

And thus

if fan­cy dare ex­plore

The thoughts that stirred His soul to weep

Sad voic­es

as from some far off shore

Rolls the low mur­mur of the deep

Came o’er Him—all the fu­ture vast

Blent with long ech­oes of the past.

“Bright as a star in Heav­en’s own blue

Light of the lands

I saw thee shine;

Kings from afar thy bright­ness knew

The gifts of She­ba decked thy shrine:

Thou were a roy­al stone and gem

Set on My heart

Je­ru­sa­lem!

“I see thee as thou sat’st of yore

A queen in beau­ty; but thy gold

Is tar­nished; lov­ers come no more

To seek thee; from thy hand hath rolled

Thy scep­ter

laid in dust; and now

The con­quer­or’s brand is on thy brow.

“But he who dares thy doom por­tray

Self-doomed

thy sac­ri­fice ex­pires;

Build

as of old

their tombs ye slay;

Fill up the mea­sure of your sires;

Nor deem thy black­est crime shall stem

Earth’s tide of woes

Je­ru­sa­lem!

“But woe to her who scorns her Lord

The land that cru­ci­fies her king!

I see the ali­en ar­mies poured

Around her—hear the ang­uish ring!

Your house lies de­so­late—ye roam

A by­word

yearn­ing for your home.

I go where sits in glo­ry crowned

Each her­ald of the Lord ye slew;

And Gen­tile tongues His praise shall sound

In seats of joy pre­pared for you:

Thy name

thy place

is giv­en to them

My bride

My new Je­ru­sa­lem!

But hark! the thrill­ing shout

more nigh

Peals on the air with joy­ous glee;

They chant His migh­ty works

and cry

This is the Christ of Ga­li­lee!

In low­li­est state He moves along

And Sa­lem’s gate re­ceives the throng.