The Pilgrimage of Abraham
By Alfred J. Waterhouse
He knew not the path where he wandered,
He knew not the journey before,
As the days of his pilgrimage lengthened,
And life to its eventide wore;
And oft by his tent on the desert
He dreamed of the way he had trod
Ere he sought for the beautiful city
Whose builder and maker is God. Above were the stars for his compass,
Beneath him the Syrian sands,
And only a promise to lead him
Through dreary and desolate lands.
Who doubts that his faith must have wavered
As he wandered, with weariness shod,
In quest of the glorified city
Whose builder and maker is God? He lay by his tent in the even,
And o'er him night's pageantry rolled,—
The stars in their crystalline orbits,
The moon down a highway of gold;
And ever he heard it, the whisper:
"Press onward o'er pathways untrod;
There 'waits you the wonderful city
Whose builder and maker is God." He was broken, and aged, and weary;
He longed for the City of Rest;
And Doubt stood beside him to question,
"Is the way you have chosen the best?"
Yet still he pressed onward and forward
O'er sand of the desert, or clod,
Still seeking the peace of the city
Whose builder and maker is God. One night the great stars in their spaces
Blazed o'er him, and glittered, and burned,
As he sank by the side of a brooklet,
And his soul for its heritage yearned.
"I am weary," he murmured; "no longer
May I on my pilgrimage plod;
Yet grant me one glimpse of the city
Whose builder and maker is God." They found him at daybreak; the breezes
Above him a requiem sung;
One cloud and its shadow crept eastward,
And o'er him a cerement flung.
Yet he smiled, as a sleeper who dreameth
Of fields that the angels have trod,
And they knew he had looked on the city
Whose builder and maker is God.