 | Wood-notes and Church-bells |  |
222
OLIVET.
Hail, dearest, surest of earth's holy places!From city-crowds the Saviour's loved retreat;
The lingering memory of His frequent feet
With lines of light thy surface interlaces.
Along thy winding paths what hallowed traces,
And 'mid thy olives, of His steps we meet;
Nor least of that last walk and farewell sweet,
Till His returning foot thy summit graces.
O'er thy calm brow the Lord would pass to borrow
Solace, where love with answering love was met;
In thy dark shadows He endured His sorrow
Even unto death, O mournful Olivet—
Which won for thee, for us, a bright to-morrow;
And now thy face, like ours, tow'rd the East is set!
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