Thou art the land of all my dreams,--
Thy wanderer's heart is thine,
And oft he lingers by thy streams,
O holy Palestine!
A stranger in a stranger's land
O'er hill and vale I roam;
But hope forever points her hand
Towards my father's home.
They tell me that on Zion's hill
The Cross and Crescent shine:
But oh, my heart is with thee still,
Beloved Palestine.
I know that Israel's weary race
Are scorned on every shore,
And scarcely find a dwelling-place
Where they were lords before.
Yet, 'mid the darkness and the gloom,
A light begins to break;
O Israel, from the dreary tomb
Thy buried hopes awake,--
And lips that raise the fervent prayer,
"How long, O Lord, how long?"
Shall change the wailings of despair
To the triumphant song.
And I may live to see the hour--
The hour that must be near,--
When in his royalty and power
Our Shiloh will appear.
Till then my prayers will rise for thee,
Till then my heart be thine,
O land beyond the stormy sea,
O holy Palestine.