They wandered through the massive gates,
And gazed upon the motley throng,
They heard the white-robed band pour out,
The flood of solemn, ancient song.

The turbaned Rabbi and the Scribe,
In broidered robes and fringes gay,
Pressed on with eager glance to join,
The rites of that thrice festal day.

But they—the Grecian Pilgrims—saw,
No magic show to bind them there,
Though incense with a perfumed cloud,
Was filling fast the House of Prayer.

The Sanhedrim enthroned in State,
To these poor wanderers all were nought,
For Jesus, in that clustered throng—
For Him, the Christ, alone they sought.

Sir, we would see him—for our ears
Have heard his god-like acts of love;
Sir, we would see him—for his heart,
Attunes itself to heaven above.

Thus, Saviour, when Thy courts we tread,
'Tis only Thee we long to view,
Thee in the sacramental grace,
Thee in the blest baptismal dew;

Thee in the read and spoken word,
Thee in the Church's ancient hymn:
Thee would we see, our risen Lord,
Now throned above the Seraphim.

And, oh, when faith is merged in sight,
And death's mysterious shadows flee,
Thee first in that unfading world,
The just made perfect long to see.

The rainbow round the throne grows dim,
The pearly gates attract no more,
For heart and eye with Christ are filled,
And Faith can have no richer store.