1 The land before them, where to choose—
They may not dwell at one—
Lay far and wide, on either side,
Beneath the morning sun.

2 Here homes of rest, like Eden dressed,
And there, beyond the skies,
The City stands not made with hands,
Nor seen with mortal eyes.

3 Who pitched his tent where sinners went,
Still keeps his spirit whole;
Nor eye nor ear lets that way near,
Defilement to the soul.

4 The Lord knows how the sainted brow
To fence with holy shame,
Sweet angel guest, unknown, but blest,
To pull us from the flame.

5 Straight to his noon, with staff and shoon,
The pilgrim climbs the hills;
And see the star of Christ afar,
Dim through the twilight’s chills.

6 There, like a pall, o’er field and wall,
The furnace hangs its breath;
And Jordan’s waves those cities’ graves
Heap with a sea of death.