AT JERUSALEM by EDNA DEAN PROCTOR

I STOOD by the Holy City,
Without the Damascus Gate,
While the wind blew soft from the distant sea,
And the day was wearing late,
And swept its wide horizon
With reverent, lingering gaze,
From the rolling uplands of the west
That slope a hundred ways,
To Olivet's gray terraces
By Kedron's bed that rise,
Upon whose crest the Crucified
Was lost to mortal eyes;
And, far beyond, to the tawny line
Where the sun seemed still to fall —
So bright the hue against the blue,
Of Moab's mountain wall;
And north to the hills of Benjamin,
Whose springs are flowing yet,
Ramah, and sacred Mizpah,
Its dome above them set;
And the beautiful words of the Psalmist
Had meaning before unknown:
@3As the mountains are round Jerusalem
The Lord is round His own.@1

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