Classic Poem

Come then, dear followers of Christ, your hand;
Together, Pilgrims, to the Holy Land!
Climb nimbly now, along the sacred hills;
Drink joyously the cool, refreshing rills;
Tread the same pathway in this later age
That Jesus trod in early pilgrimage.
All well known things are there; from flowers that bloom
And trees that soar, down to His empty tomb;
And all things speak in nature's chorus true,
Of Him who lived, and loved, and died for you.

Come, and when Holier Land , where Christ hath gone,
Breaks on your sight, — when breaks the expectant Morn
O'er heavenly hills, and faith and hope shall die,
The deepest secrets of the upper sky
Shall be revealed; the humblest emblem here
Shall have its antitype celestial there,
And earth, with all its imagery be given
A school to fit us for the perfect Heaven.