A HEBREW knelt in the dying light, His eye was dim and cold, The hair on his brow was silver white, And his blood was thin and old. He lifted his eye to his latest sun, For he felt that his pilgrimage was done, And as he saw God's shadow[3] there, His spirit pour'd itself in prayer. "I come unto Death's second birth Beneath a stranger air, A pilgrim on a chill, cold earth, As all my fathers were; And _men_ have stamp'd me with a _curse_, I feel it is not _Thine_. Thy mercy, like yon sun, was made On me, as all to shine; And therefore dare I lift mine eye Through that to Thee, before I die. In this great temple, built by Thee, Whose altars are divine, Beneath yon lamp that ceaselessly Lights up Thine own true shrine, Take this my latest sacrifice, Look down and make this sod Holy as that where long ago The Hebrew met his God. I have not caused the widow's tears, Nor dimm'd the orphan's eye, I have not stain'd the virgin's years, Nor mock'd the mourner's cry. The songs of Zion in my ear Have ever been most sweet, And always when I felt Thee near, My shoes were 'off my feet.' I have known Thee in the whirlwind, I have known Thee on the hill, I have known Thee in the voice of birds, In the music of the rill. I dreamt Thee in the shadow, I saw Thee in the light, I heard Thee in the thunder-peal, And worshipp'd in the night. All beauty, while it spoke of Thee, Still made my heart rejoice, And my spirit bow'd within itself To hear 'Thy still, small voice.' I have not felt myself a thing Far from Thy presence driven, By flaming sword or waving wing Cut off from Thee and heaven. Must I the whirlwind reap, because, My fathers sow'd the storm? Or shrink because another sinn'd, Beneath Thy red, right arm? Oh! much of this we dimly scan, And much is all unknown, I will not take my _curse_ from _man_, I turn to THEE alone. Oh! bid my fainting spirit live, And what is dark, reveal, And what is evil--oh, forgive! And what is broken--heal. And cleanse my spirit from above, In the deep Jordan of Thy love! I know not if the Christian's heaven Shall be the same as mine, I only ask to be forgiven, And taken home to THINE. I weary on a far, dim strand, Whose mansions are as tombs, And long to find the Father-land, Where there are many homes. Oh! grant of all yon shining throngs Some dim and distant star, Where Judah's lost and scatter'd sons May worship from afar! When all earth's myriad harps shall meet In choral praise and prayer, Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet, Alone be wanting there? Yet place me in the lowest seat, Though I, as now, lie there,